


Now and Then

by PixChuu22



Series: Cathedral [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Aftermath of Torture, Alpha Mary, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Bonding, Dubious Consent, Estrangement, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, Knotting, Lots of Angst, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega John, Omega Verse, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 51,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2010168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson is trying to move forward with his life after watching Sherlock Holmes fall to his death two years before. After suffering through not only the loss of a friend and flatmate but also a Bonded lover, John has found salvation in Mary Morstan - or so he tells himself until Sherlock returns from the dead and expresses a desire to return to their previously Bonded state, despite John's new Bond with Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
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_"You have been watched from a distance for some time now and now you are being watched from even farther away. Anyway, you’d like to believe it’s true. Who wouldn’t? Just because a thing’s invisible doesn’t mean it don’t exist, you think to yourself, but still, there is no valid way to test it. And then one day you fall asleep on the train on the way home but you get home anyway. You close your eyes and nothing happens. You close your eyes every now and then, just to test the waters, and find you’re still moving, being moved, walking through the tunnel with your eyes closed, held up and carried along by the crowd." - Richard Siken, "The Long and Short of It"_

**Now**

There were times when Dr. John Watson would shut his eyes and let himself indulge in memories of life with Sherlock Holmes, the wild and clever consulting detective that had terrorized the streets of London with his impossible deductions for so many years. Often, the memories could lift him out of the unceasing, repetitive slog of his daily life...but only if John were very, very careful. It was one thing to indulge in memories of what used to be. Letting himself get carried away by them, though, always led to one inevitable point in his history: himself staring up at the roof of St. Bart's Hospital and screaming Sherlock's name in helpless desperation as he watched the detective fall.

That Tuesday evening, riding the train home from the clinic where he worked his nine-to-five now that his life had become unendingly normal ('Boring,' he corrected himself, but those kinds of thoughts never led anywhere good so he dismissed it quickly from the front of his mind), he found his mind drifting again back to the life he'd lived two years before.

It was a partnership that shouldn't have worked: an unbonded Omega sharing a flat with an Alpha who disdained taking chemical suppressants ("They slow my mind, John; nothing must interfere with the Work," had been the only explanation Sherlock had given him). It was a recipe for disaster in most normal situations, but there had never been anything 'normal' about Sherlock Holmes. John and Sherlock had found a way to make John's twice-a-year Heats something unimportant. Somehow, Sherlock had found ways to involve himself in cases that kept him away from their shared flat for days at a time during those Heats and John had been left alone to deal with the intense sexual frustration of an unmated Heat by himself. It had protected their working and flatsharing relationship, so John hadn't faulted Sherlock for his choice, especially in the early days of the friendship when everything was hesitant and new, often awkward and uncomfortable, and they were feeling their way through things.

And perhaps, if they had continued things like that indefinitely, John would not have suffered so acutely over Sherlock's fall from the roof of the hospital. It had been a good working relationship and a good way for an Alpha and Omega who didn't have plans to Bond to deal with Heats. But Sherlock had never been the type to leave well enough alone. No, it had been John's last Heat before the fall...

The brakes on the train squealed as it slowed, pulling John from his reverie. John was relieved. He'd nearly traveled into memories best left untouched.

Thinking of Sherlock was completely the wrong tack this evening. Standing from his seat, John glanced at his watch. He had a dinner reservation that evening at The Landmark Hotel. He'd been dating a coworker for nearly seven months. The relationship was nice, predictable, and healing. Mary Morstan was a nurse at the clinic, a surprising job choice for an Alpha. It was part of what had attracted John to her in the first place; an Alpha who chose a vocation that helped others? It reminded him of Sherlock and his choice to be a consulting detective, solving the crimes of the wrongdoers to save those who couldn't save themselves.

But he wasn't thinking about Sherlock. He had more immediate things that should be occupying his thoughts.

Keeping his head up and avoiding eye-contact with anyone passing by on the street, John headed for his small flat to get ready for the evening out with Mary. The engagement ring waiting back at his flat and the question he would pose to Mary in just a few hours deserved his attention now, not thoughts of a long-dead flatmate. Not even a flatmate who had briefly - so briefly - been his Mate in every sense of the word. And if he thought he saw a tall, dark-haired phantom out of the corner of his eye - as he had so many times in the last two years - John didn't even bother glancing back to verify that it was all in his head. He was moving beyond chasing phantoms. He had to.

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, his voice intense and his mercurial eyes almost painfully sharp as they scraped across John's face.

"I'm sure," John said, tugging uncomfortably at the hem of his jumper. It felt uncomfortably warm - another sign. "Can't you tell yet? I mean, you've seen the early stages before."

"Yes, but I've been a little _distracted_ this week, John," Sherlock said, his voice dropping nearly to a growl as he paced away from John and then back towards him again. They were in the sitting room of their shared flat, John perched uncomfortably on the armchair he usually occupied while Sherlock prowled in front of him, face twisted in annoyance. He was having to step over piles of loose papers and stacks of books, the remnants of their last case that Sherlock had not yet bothered to clean up. "Assassins living within spitting distance of the flat and my having to do the Yard's work on most of their cases has somewhat eaten up my brain power."

"Yeah, well, _I_ know the signs and I'm telling you -"

"I know what you're telling me," Sherlock snapped, cutting John off mid-sentence. "I absolutely cannot leave right now. I have too many time-sensitive experiments going that would not survive being left alone for the better part of a week. This is, without a doubt, your most inconveniently timed Heat yet."

"It's not like a planned it this way!" John snapped, bristling at Sherlock's tone. But the taller man waved one graceful, long-fingered hand in dismissal.

"I realize that. I wasn't implying that you had arranged a Heat to interrupt the Work, John. I'm venting my bile. It isn't meant as an insult to you."

"Yeah, well, that's not how it feels," John said, tugging again at the hem of his jumper. He entertained the idea of shucking it and sitting there in his vest but discarded the idea immediately; it wouldn't be fair to either him or Sherlock if he started a strip tease in the sitting room.

"What sort of timeline are we looking at?" Sherlock asked, coming to a stop in front of John and leaning forward over the sandy-haired man, resting his hands on the arms of John's chair. Part of John wanted to lean back, putting space between the intense glare of the detective and himself, but a larger part wanted to lean forward and invade Sherlock's space even more.

John cleared his throat, trying to dismiss the impulse, clenching his hands into fists in his lap. "Hours. Perhaps a day at the outside."

Sherlock spun away in frustration, resuming his pacing and muttering furiously under his breath. John rubbed his still-fisted hands over his thighs for a moment before sighing. "Look, you can't leave and I can't stop what's coming. Maybe I could leave for the duration? Get a motel room or something?"

"Ridiculous," Sherlock snapped, not pausing his pacing to even glance at John.

"It's the best option we have at the moment," John said, still rubbing his knuckles repetitively over his thighs. It was distractingly pleasant, the pressure of his hands on the skin.

_'Getting worse,'_ he thought, trying to stop his hands and finding it disconcertingly difficult. _'Not even a day until the full Heat hits. Definitely only hours.'_

"No, it isn't." Sherlock stopped his pacing, standing still for a moment as he stared into the distance. John knew that look. He had seen that same look hundreds of times in the last few years. It was a searching look, the look of someone riffling through handfuls of things to get to the bottom and find the item they were seeking. It was the look of Sherlock cutting away all the chaff to get to the solution he wanted.

"Sherlock," he began, trying to protest, but it was too late. Sherlock spun to face John, his expression delighted and resolute.

"The best option is for both of us to stay here in 221B. We'll see the Heat through together." Sherlock dropped into his own black leather armchair, a faint smile of satisfaction curving the corners of his mouth as he steepled his fingers under his chin, staring at John.

John's breath exploded outward in an annoyed huff. He couldn't believe how close the proposition was to exactly what he wanted and yet still so far away from it as to be insulting.

John had admired Sherlock's intelligence practically from the first moment they'd met. He couldn't understand how anyone wouldn't find Sherlock fascinating. His quick mind, his sharp observational skills, and his complete inability (or was it unwillingness?) to understand social niceties had been equal parts annoying and charming, and somehow as the months went by, John had found that his admiration for Sherlock had turned into almost a schoolboy's crush. It was embarrassing in the extreme and he'd done his best to ignore it, especially since his first hesitant flirting with Sherlock in the very earliest days of their relationship as flatmates and colleagues had been quickly rebuffed by the taller man. Unfortunately, John had watched as his crush had grown and changed through the passage of time and become something deeper, hotter, and harder to ignore. He'd liked to believe that he'd done a good job of hiding it from everyone - even the object of his affection who normally saw through all prevarications - but sometimes he wondered.

And now, here Sherlock was, proposing exactly what John had wanted for uncountable months: spend a Heat together as an Alpha and Omega. Allow nature to take its course. Follow through with the deep, hidden desires John had been ignoring for God knew how long. Or, at least, that was what John wanted; from Sherlock's words, it was apparent that he was thinking only of both of them staying in the flat while John suffered through his Heat and Sherlock continued his Work.

"Sherlock, you can't stay here while I'm in Heat!" John protested, rising from his chair. "It's ridiculous. You've never even been around an Omega in Heat, have you?"

"No, but I don't see what -" Sherlock began, but John cut him short with a sharp shake of his head.

"No. No. You _do_ see because you see everything. You're an Alpha. I'm an Omega. If I go into Heat with you in the flat, you won't be able to stop yourself from seeking me out. The pheromones won't let you _reason_ your way out of it. You'll be drawn to me and nature will take over and we'll end up fucking in every room in the flat. So, I'm going to pack and find a nice, out-of-the-way motel and I'll be back in three or four days, all right?"

"No," Sherlock said simply, lowering his hands from his chin to grip onto the arms of his chair.

John paused for a moment, waiting to hear what would follow that. When Sherlock didn't speak, he raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "'No'? That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"John, a motel room is not a secure place to ride out a Heat. There are reports in the papers of rapes in that situation practically daily -"

"You don't read the bloody papers!" John interrupted, but Sherlock continued, unperturbed.

"You will be much safer here in the flat with me. There is no chance of you being raped here. I can ask Mrs. Hudson to visit her sister for the week; I'm sure I even have the funds to pay for her travel expenses, thanks to the last two cases you talked me into taking - although, really, John, let's limit how many fives I have to solve. It was tedious." He tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair for a second before continuing. "I'll let Lestrade know that I'm out of pocket for the next few days and that I'll text once I'm able to once more continue helping him, should he have need of me. We have food and relative safety; it is absolutely the best and most intelligent course of action."

John clenched his jaw as he worked to prevent himself from shouting out his first, instinctive response (an insulted 'are you mad?') and settled on glaring at Sherlock and breathing heavily through his nose.

After several long moments of silence, Sherlock seemed to take in John's offended glare and his brow furrowed. "It's the most logical -" he began but John cut him off.

"I'm not interested in spending four days locked in my bedroom, smelling you outside my door and making me crazy!" John shouted and Sherlock gave a single, startled blink. He stared at John for a moment before understanding flooded his face.

"I've been unclear," he said, rising slowly from his chair and stepping over to stand near John, invading the shorter man's space as he rested both long-fingered hands on one arm of John's chair. "I didn't intend for you to spend it locked in your bedroom avoiding me. I intended us to spend it _together_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Now**

How did one propose in such a way as to limit the likelihood of a 'no?' John glanced again towards the upstairs landing of the extremely posh restaurant where Mary had retreated a few minutes before to take a phone call. He pulled the ring from his pocket, opening the velvet-covered case to glance down at the shining gemstone in the center of the setting. It was pretty enough, he supposed. He hadn't really had an opinion on the ring beyond 'not too expensive' and 'not too plain.'

If she said 'no,' it wouldn't be the ring's fault, John felt sure. But how did he present it to make it - and him - as desirable as possible? Did he have it waiting in the closed jeweler's box on the table when she came down? Did he have the box open in his palm, holding it towards her? Did he drop the ring itself into a glass of wine? No, that was trite. And what if she accidentally drank it, like some late-night comedy programme?

Should he blurt it out as soon as she had sat back down again? "Mary, marry me?"

That was awful.

No, he'd need to talk her around. They'd only been dating for a little over seven months. And on top of that, she knew that he was still suffering over his last relationship. God, it was impossible not to know. She'd seen him stifling tears randomly when he thought he could be unobserved. She'd seen him refuse to go into certain restaurants and cafes, watched him avoid taking paths through the city that reminded him too strongly of Sherlock. There was no way she would say 'yes' to a proposal of marriage unless he could convince her that he was truly ready to move beyond the life he'd lived before.

He was reassured that she had at least agreed to spend his last Heat with him. He'd asked hesitantly, feeling like he was betraying Sherlock's memory in some way...but he'd been apart from Sherlock almost as long as he had known the man, and there was no point in holding on to something that was gone. Even the bond bite had vanished after several hellish days of misery and bone-crushing depression several months after Sherlock's death. Sherlock was gone. There was no going back. Spending his Heat with Mary, his girlfriend and an Alpha, was the logical next step towards healing.

She had agreed and the sex had been fantastic, even if once or twice between the frantic Heat-driven couplings, John had found himself thinking longingly of Sherlock. Mary hadn't agreed to mark John and bond with him during that Heat cycle but John hadn't blamed her; they'd been dating for a single month at the time and having lived through the breaking of a bond bite once, he had no desire to have to go through it again if he and Mary proved incompatible after they'd been dating longer. He'd thought that by his next Heat, were he and Mary still together, she'd almost certainly agree to bond.

By his calculations, his next Heat would be arriving within the next few days. This was absolutely the best time to ask Mary to be his lawfully wedded wife, because if she said 'yes,' they could bond within the next week. And, if she said 'no,' there would really be no point in spending his next Heat with her, would there?

But he didn't want to think like that. Positive thoughts. He needed positive thoughts.

Now if only the intrusive waiter would return with the wine John had requested. It would be good to be able to pour a glass before the proposal, give his hands something to do other than fidget with the box and -

"Sorry that took so long." John startled at Mary's voice just beside him, shoving the box containing the ring back into his pocket. He definitely didn't want it just sitting out on the table like an awkward centerpiece until he'd at least had a chance to convince her that saying 'yes' wouldn't be a horrific mistake.

"You okay?" she asked, settling herself back into her chair, smoothing the fine material of her dress. She furrowed her brow at him faintly, her green eyes probing as she looked him over.

"Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am _fine_ ," John insisted, realizing even as he said the words how ridiculous he sounded. He was practically stuttering with nervousness and there was no way she wasn't hearing it. Well, hopefully she would find it charming. Perhaps he could incorporate his nerves into the proposal somehow? He would certainly endeavor to try.

But he was still stumbling his way through uncomfortable verbal circles, trying to make his way to the point, Mary laughing fondly at him, when everything fell apart.

That damned pushy waiter had returned at absolutely the worst possible time, refusing to let John be, refusing to let the proposal go forward...except that the waiter wasn't a waiter and suicide wasn't suicide and apparently John had been a fool all along.

He'd lifted his eyes to ask the waiter to leave him alone for just a few minutes - really, that was all it would take for him to get to the point, he was sure - but the face looking down at him was painfully, heart-breakingly familiar and John lost all the words he had learned throughout his entire life in one choking rush.

His first reaction was disbelief. He felt tears fill his eyes as one hand reached up to rub unconsciously at the back of his neck, palm cupping the muscles where his neck and shoulder met and where once the scar of a bond bite mark had graced his skin. Now there was only smooth skin. And then the sorrow faded and all John could think was, _'He's not dead, and I'm going to kill him.'_

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

John was flabbergasted. For a moment, he couldn't speak and when he did manage to push words past his shock, they came out disconnected from one another.

"You... intended... together?"

"John, it has seemed to me for some time that you are interested in me, at least physically. You may not admire me but I greatly admire you. It seems only logical that we would spend your Heat together. We've been sharing this flat for nearly two years and we've avoided tempting our base natures with your previous three Heats but I think, at this point, we could safely share a Heat without lasting repercussions."

That was the final straw. John stood from his armchair and drew himself up to his full height, clenching his hands into fists at his sides as he glared at the handsome, brilliant, idiotic man in front of him.

'Lasting repercussions.' Sherlock meant bonding. That was the only thing he could possibly mean. If he'd only meant lingering post-coital awkwardness, he wouldn't have tied the idea to John's Heat. After all, they could've had sex at any time without involving John's Heat.

"Of course, I don't mean pregnancy," Sherlock hastened to assure John, obviously misinterpreting the anger on John's face. "I've stockpiled condoms on the idea that we would both prefer avoiding bringing children into our rather unpredictable lives. Our Work leaves no room for children." Sherlock scoffed faintly at the idea and John felt his spine straighten even more, becoming almost uncomfortably taut.

John had never really given much thought to children. They were a side effect of his Omega nature but not something John had ever logically pursued. He'd been too young, and then too busy being shot at in a foreign country, and then too depressed, and then too busy chasing after a brilliant madman to have ever stopped to consider if he'd want to have children. It wasn't really the insult of Sherlock saying children weren't part of the equation that was upsetting John; it was that Sherlock had obviously put so much thought into this whole proposal and had never thought to talk to John about it.

"Let me make sure that I am understanding you," John said, his voice tight and sharp as he fought to avoid dissolving into ranting fury. "You want us to have sex during my Heat."

"Yes, John, I thought that was obvious," Sherlock said, sounding vaguely annoyed.

"Mm," John hummed, holding one hand up to stop Sherlock from saying anything else. He kept the hand up between them, palm towards Sherlock almost as if he wanted to push the other man away. "You want to have sex during my Heat and have stockpiled condoms for this purpose. You don't intend us to bond, though, because that would be a 'lasting repercussion' to you. Right?"

"I've never thought about having a Mated before," Sherlock said, shrugging his lean shoulders faintly. "It's never been an avenue of thought that I've pursued. Honestly, I've never before put much thought towards spending time with an Omega during their Heat."

"Ah," John said. "Yes. Right. I'm going to pack."

He spun on his heel and headed toward the stairs to his bedroom. He could no longer tell if the heat of his skin was due to his rising fury or the hormone assault of his impending Heat, and he didn't care at the moment. He wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of the flat and away from the insults being thrown his way.

"John, wait," Sherlock said, pursuing him. John paused on the stairs, one step up from Sherlock. It put them eye-to-eye and John found it was much easier to glower at the taller man when he wasn't being forced to look up at him.

"What?" John asked, the word sharp and clipped.

"This isn't coming across right. I'm trying to say that I've never put any thought towards spending an Omega's Heat with them before I got to know _you_. I've found it increasingly difficult over the last two years to leave during your Heats and not because of the pheromone cocktail you were producing. It was difficult to leave because it was _you_. I find you fascinating and I don't just mean the Omega side of you; all of you fascinates me. I wouldn't offer to spend a Heat with you if it wasn't something that I was intensely interested in."

"What, cataloguing an Omega in Heat?" John asked, the words dripping with venom. "Trust me, you won't be able to catalogue anything once the Mating drive takes over."

"No!" Sherlock snapped, losing his grip on his temper finally. "Good God, it almost seems as if you're deliberately trying to misunderstand me. I want to spend your Heat with you because I want to be around you constantly. Not just while you're making tea or reading the paper or typing on your blog or telling me how fantastic I am. I want to be with you when you're just being John and when you're giving in to the base of your Omega nature. I want to be around you constantly because you fascinate me. Can you understand what I'm saying?" Sherlock stared at John intensely, his expression almost pleading by the time he'd finished speaking.

John took a deep breath, turning his face away from Sherlock and trying to calm the pulse of his anger. When he felt he had it well in hand, he looked back at Sherlock's intense and earnest face. "If I'm understanding you, you are saying that you - in your own way - fancy me?"

John had meant it to come out a statement but at the last moment his voice turned up at the end, making it into a question. Sherlock's shoulders relaxed at the words, though, and he gave John a bright smile. "Exactly that."

It took a moment for those two words to sink in. Sherlock had always been about the Work. Solving cases and working out puzzles had been what drove Sherlock every day of his life. Any time Sherlock had to be around other people, he seemed completely disinterested in even trying to get along with them beyond what was necessary to get the information or cooperation he needed at that moment for whatever case he was pursuing. Even when other people had shown obvious interest in Sherlock - Molly, Irene, even that insane bastard, Jim Moriarty - Sherlock had always shrugged it off. John had begun to assume that Sherlock's sex drive was something he categorized with 'breathing' and 'solar system: knowledge of' as being too boring to bother with.

John had spent so long convincing himself that Sherlock couldn't feel anything for another person that he had given up looking for signs that Sherlock might feel something for _him_. And now, here he was, proposing that he and John spend the most intimate time of John's life together and not because Sherlock wanted to catalogue all the changes that they both went through but simply for the pleasure of John's company.

The idea was so completely bizarre that John couldn't find words.

The silence between them stretched until the look of joy faded from Sherlock's face, leaving behind confusion and then slowly dawning horror.

"Have I... misread your feelings?" Sherlock asked, leaning back slightly from John in the stairwell. He was obviously readying himself to flee from the increasingly uncomfortable atmosphere so John did the only thing he could think of to clear the air between them.

He leaned out, catching hold of Sherlock's shoulder with one hand, crumpling the dark purple material of Sherlock's button-up shirt and pulling the other man towards him as he leaned forward to meet him. Their lips touched clumsily, Sherlock inexperienced and John at an awkward angle thanks to the stairs and to Sherlock's partially turned body as he'd prepared to flee. There was a beat after their lips met, and then Sherlock's hands were gripping at the sides of John's jumper and John had slid his hand from Sherlock's shoulder onto his upper back and they were both twisting their heads as they sought a more comfortable position.

The kiss ramped up from awkward to incredibly heated within seconds. Gently, John opened his mouth over Sherlock's and Sherlock followed John's lead. The first touch of tongue on tongue drew a low, wanting moan from John's throat and Sherlock's hands clutched convulsively at the material of John's jumper. Their tongues touched and retreated over and over as the kiss deepened and shallowed in turns. John pulled back slightly to take tentative nips at Sherlock's cupid's bow lips and Sherlock responded by shuffling closer and tipping his head back, giving John better access. John's other hand came forward to cup Sherlock's head, fingers threading through the dark curls at the nape of his neck.

A frantic, desperate feeling was welling up in John now. The heat rising from his skin was definitely not the heat of anger any longer and his clothes were beginning to feel like they were constructed from poorly made burlap, rough and scratching at his over-sensitized skin. He shuddered as he clamped his mouth back on Sherlock's once more. Sherlock was breathing unevenly through his nose and John could feel faint shudders trickling through Sherlock's body as John's rising Omega pheromones bonded with the Alpha chemical receptors in Sherlock's brain.

Sherlock broke away, moving down a step on the stairs even as his hands stayed clutched in John's jumper. His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing the blue-green of his irises. "Mrs. Hudson," he said, his deep voice roughened with desire. "Lestrade. I'll need...a minute."

"Right," John said, his own voice decidedly unsteady. "Right, yeah. Good. Okay."

"And I need to get the condoms," Sherlock said.

"Right." John nodded. "Right. Condoms are...important."

"A minute," Sherlock promised, turning away from John.

"More than a minute," John advised, nodding toward the prominent bulge in the front of Sherlock's trousers. The dark haired man glanced down and then gave a mirthless laugh as he realized he would have to calm down before it would be polite to be in the presence of another person.

"Right. I'll text Lestrade first. Outside the flat. The air will be less..." He waved his hand in John's direction and then rolled his shoulders, obviously struggling to do as he'd said. "I'll just be out there. Just..."

"A minute," John agreed. He watched Sherlock walk out the front door of the flat, pulling it shut firmly behind him. On the stairs, John suddenly found his legs too shaky to hold him up and he sank to the step, gasping weakly.

This was going to happen. This was actually going to happen. Untouchable Sherlock with his disinterest in everything that wasn't the Work was going to stay through John's Heat and was undoubtedly going to fuck him senseless.

A strangled moan squeezed from John's throat. He leaned his hot forehead against the wall of the stairwell, the cool wood comforting against his skin. The movement scraped his jumper over his skin again and with an annoyed huff, John reached down and tore the jumper over his head, tossing it unceremoniously onto the stairs next to him. The cool air felt glorious against his skin and he realized he was rolling his hips helplessly against the stair he sat on, his erection pressing uncomfortably against the zip in his trousers. John was falling inexorably into his Heat. He could feel the dampness gathering in his pants now, a harbinger of the torrents of wetness that were to follow once he lost himself completely in the rising waves of hormones and chemicals.

It was a relief, he realized, that he would not need to dig out his box of Heat toys that he kept underneath his bed. For this Heat, he would not be desperately fucking himself on cold plastic tools and wanking without any real relief as he had for the majority of his Heats throughout his life.

Of course, John had spent a few Heats with Alphas before. It would've been ridiculous not to, especially in the modern world where Alpha-specific condoms existed and where a careful Omega could have as many partners as they wished. Despite how much better a Heat with an Alpha was, though, John had never been able to convince himself to spend more than a handful with anyone but himself. He had never seen the point of emotionally binding himself that closely with someone he didn't intend to truly bond with.

 _'Is this a good idea?'_ he asked himself, the thought drifting through the haze of his arousal. _'Sherlock has already said he doesn't want to bond. Won't this just be more of the same? Heat sex without a Bond afterward to make it something important?'_

He paused, staring at the shut front door. _Was_ it worth it?

The answer came to him almost immediately: of course it was. This was Sherlock bloody Holmes. Even if this was the one and only Heat that John spent with Sherlock, it would be worth it. If this was going to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, John wasn't going to pass it up based simply on the idea that it was one time only.

Decision made, John undid the zip on the his trousers and stepped back down the stairs, heading toward Sherlock's bedroom to await the inevitable.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be Omegaverse sex, and while it is tame (because this is not a PWP but angst and love) it is still there. If you're unfamiliar with Omegaverse sex or it makes you uncomfortable, you may want to either skim or skip the "Then" portion of this chapter... and the next couple of chapters. You've been warned.

**Now**

John stared at his shaving-cream-covered face reflected in the bathroom mirror. A few jabs about his moustache from Sherlock and here he was, ready to shave it off. It would have been ridiculous if it hadn't been so depressingly normal and exactly what John would have expected of himself. Sherlock's opinions of John had always mattered, even when John was telling himself they didn't. That, at least, hadn't changed in the two years that Sherlock had been missing-but-apparently-not-dead.

"What are you doing?" Mary's voice intruded on his reverie and John glanced back towards the bedroom where she sat in his bed, still wearing her pajamas. After being unable to ask The Question the night before - completely due to the sudden return of the idiot genius that John had so thoroughly throttled after getting a truly insulting 'apology' for leaving John in mourning for two years - John had been forced to settle for asking if Mary would like to spend the night.

And now he was regretting that question as she stared at him, her face lighting up in amusement at the shaving cream on his face.

"Having a wash," John said dryly, refusing to acknowledge what he was actually doing. But Mary saw through that.

"You're shaving it off," she said, leaning forward with a smirk. "Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead... and John Watson, going clean-shaven again. I should send him a 'thank you' card. Maybe some flowers."

John snorted faintly, turning back to the bathroom mirror.

"Still doing okay?" Mary asked, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her shins. She'd asked that question repeatedly the night before as John worked through his fury. Despite how obvious it was that she wanted to talk about his feelings, she had respected his desire not to talk about the situation beyond his reassurances that he was, in fact, doing just fine. He was just angry. Fine, just angry.

"Same as last night," John replied absently, concentrating on dragging the razor over his face.

"Are you going to see him again?" Mary asked, her voice careful. And John froze. There was the Big Question, perhaps the Biggest Question. Was he going to go and see Sherlock again? The man who had lied to him, pretended to kill himself and kept John in a miasma of misery and guilt and loneliness for two years? Could he face Sherlock again without dissolving into the same blinding fury of the night before?

"No." He said, drawing the razor gently across his face again and staring hard at his reflection, ignoring the lie in his eyes. "I'm going to work."

Mary was as unconvinced by his lie as John was. "And after work, are you going to see him again?"

It wasn't a question John could answer, so he didn't. John lowered the razor to the sink, his free hand coming up to rub unconsciously at the back of his neck, touching the spot where his bond mark had, for just a few short months, shown that he was important to someone. The skin was smooth and unblemished under his hand, the mark erased without a trace. If only everything else were so easy to erase.

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

John hesitated in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom. He'd been in there before, of course, but even those brief forays into the inner sanctum of Sherlock Holmes' private life had left John feeling like he was invading somewhere he wasn't welcome. Sherlock had always guarded himself fiercely, and while he had never outright told John not to come into his bedroom, the instructions had hung unspoken between them at all times.

Now, though, John felt sure that he was welcome. Sherlock had said he was stockpiling condoms and John felt fairly sure they would be in Sherlock's bedroom. It was the most logical place, then, to spend the majority of his Heat. Having a ready supply of condoms at hand over the next four days would help to prevent any slip ups, after all.

Still, entering the room felt like a major undertaking and once John was across the threshold he hesitated again, unsure of where to go. The polite thing to do would be to sit on the chair beside the wardrobe...but as John's body sank deeper into his Heat, his sense of smell increased to better help him find an Alpha with whom to mate. He was attuned to all things Alpha now, and the scent from Sherlock's sheets was positively tantalizing.

Without making a conscious decision to do so, John found himself drifting over to Sherlock's bed, his nostrils flaring wide as he took several deep inhalations of the scent that clung to the sheets. There was the scent of the cigarettes Sherlock had been trying to sneak without John being aware of them (which had not worked), the woody scent of Sherlock's shampoo and conditioner (an expensive blend with no synthetic fragrance to throw off Alpha or Omega scent receptors, something John could only dream of affording some day), the sharp tang of sweat from restless nights spent tossing and turning...but underneath all of that was the scent of Alpha.

All Alphas smelled basically the same and yet each Alpha was subtly different. There was always the scent of potential fertility, a scent John had always associated with the richness of clotted cream. There was also the scent of Alpha, a sharp scent that made John want to bare the nape of his neck, especially when he was in Heat. But beyond those two scents was a thick, rich scent that nearly made John's mouth water. It was the scent that was Sherlock's particular Alpha fragrance, the scent that let John know if they would be compatible as a mated pair...and from the way his body responded, the answer was a loud and emphatic 'yes.'

He had been erect before, but the scent of Sherlock on the sheets sent a new rush of blood to his prick and he suddenly felt painfully hard. It also caused the dampness of his arousal to go into full production and he felt the tickle of liquid trickling slowly and teasingly down the backs of his thighs as his pants failed to hold the new rush of arousal.

Unable to stop himself, he lowered himself to Sherlock's bed, slipping beneath the comforter to wallow in the scent of Sherlock, rubbing his body in it and letting his own unique Omega scent mix with Sherlock's. The resulting aroma made John moan in helpless desire and he pressed his face into Sherlock's pillow, hips thrusting gently forward to rub his throbbing prick into the firm mattress. This also rubbed him against the edges of his open zip, though, and he groaned faintly at the pain. He reached down, shoving at his trousers until they slid down his hips. He stopped with them around his knees, his pants still on although his hard cock had shoved through the opening in the front. The touch of his bare cock against the scent-charged sheets of Sherlock's bed made a shudder of desire ripple through him and he realized he was losing himself in his Heat. He wasn't going to be sensate for much longer.

"Hmmm." The sound was a low rumble from the doorway of the room and John recognized the timbre of the voice without having to look. A fresh wave of the scent rising from the sheets rushed over John as Sherlock moved to stand beside his bed, looking down at the writhing Omega. "You have progressed quite a bit in the last twenty minutes."

"Yes," John said, turning his head fractionally on Sherlock's pillow so he could meet the tall man's slightly narrowed, assessing eyes. "I was... optimistic... when I said hours."

"I see that," Sherlock murmured, lowering himself slowly to sit on the edge of the bed. John wanted desperately to turn toward Sherlock, but he couldn't seem to stop thrusting helplessly against the mattress. It was a part of his biology that infuriated him when he wasn't in Heat, the part that was most often referenced in the snide jokes about Omegas. 'Absolutely gagging for it,' as they said. John's body had reached the point where the only thing that mattered was sex and orgasm. The presence of an Alpha wasn't even enough for his brain to make the necessary connections to help John turn toward the relief of another human body; all he could do was thrust and moan softly, hoping that Sherlock would get the message. Gagging for it.

Sherlock reached out hesitatingly, tugging the comforter and sheets back to expose John to the air, his pupils blowing wide again with desire as he took in the sight that greeted him: John in his vest with his trousers around his knees, a growing wet patch on the back of his pants as he humped Sherlock's bed.

"God," Sherlock said softly, reaching a hand hesitatingly toward John's arse. He obviously felt drawn to touch and be touched, but he hadn't yet been completely overwhelmed by their hormone cocktail infusing the air and caution won out. "Um...may I?"

"Oh, God, yes," John said, a gasp chasing his words. The heat of Sherlock's palm against his cheeks finally stopped the helpless thrusting of his hips. Instead, he lifted up into the heat and pressure of Sherlock's palm, his eyes sliding shut at the touch.

"So wet," Sherlock murmured, sounding both amazed and incredibly turned on. "I had heard stories, but I had dismissed them as exaggerations..."

"Scent," John said, opening his eyes and trying to focus. "Your scent on... the bed. We're...very compatible."

"Hmmm," Sherlock rumbled again, his palm stroking firmly across John's arse and upper thighs, gathering the dampness from the back of his pants and skin before bringing his hand close to his face and inhaling slowly. Sherlock's body shuddered and John found himself turning more toward Sherlock to better take in the man's reaction to John's Mating scent. Pleasure and desire swept across Sherlock's face and when he opened his eyes, the blue-green irises had been reduced to the faintest ring around the drowning black of his blown pupils.

"Amazing," Sherlock whispered, his palm still hovering beside his face. "Absolutely amazing."

John couldn't stop the breathless laugh that burst from him any more than he could stop himself saying, "You know you're...doing that out loud."

The faint smile that tugged the corners of Sherlock's mouth up showed that he recognized the words. Planting his palms firmly on the mattress, he leaned down to claim John's mouth with his own, the kiss made slightly awkward by John's body still being turned into the mattress. The hesitance on the stairwell was gone. Although Sherlock had been slightly awkward and unpracticed then, he had obviously been paying attention to their earlier kisses because he kissed with precision now. The lick of his tongue into John's mouth had John scrabbling at the material of Sherlock's trouser-clad thigh with his near hand, breathing harshly through his nose as he began thrusting his throbbing prick into the mattress again.

Sherlock broke the kiss but before John could protest, Sherlock's hot mouth was sweeping over his jaw and his neck, nibbling and tasting. John let his cheek flop back onto Sherlock's pillow as the detective worshipped his body with lips, tongue, and teeth.

"I have studied Heat," Sherlock murmured softly into the shell of John's ear before his tongue flicked out, running along the outer edge of the ear from bottom to top and causing John to shudder. "I had prepared myself for this moment for months, wanting to be sure I would do everything right."

Putting his hands onto John's shoulders, Sherlock gently rolled the Omega to his back, bringing his face to John's collarbone and pressing his teeth in, leaving faint marks behind as John writhed at the touch.

"I had hoped to make this good enough that you would be willing to spend the rest of your Heats with me," Sherlock confessed, sliding his hands underneath John's vest to press his long fingers against John's hot skin, pads of his fingertips sliding over John's nipples. "I want you to want to be with me every time you're like this."

John groaned heavily as Sherlock's fingertips tweaked his nipples and he thrust his hips upward, cock straining. This was absolutely torturous. When would Sherlock get to the point and start fucking him?

"But now that I'm here," Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper as he pulled John's vest quickly up and over his head, discarding it carelessly onto the floor, "I'm afraid that I'm not going to take the time I wanted to. I feel like I am...slipping." Sherlock leaned down, tongue laving at John's nipple for a moment. "I'm beginning to have trouble focusing. I find that I'm..." Sherlock closed his mouth over John's nipple, sucking hard enough to make John's back bow up off the bed, John's mouth falling open in a drawn out "Ah" of pleasure.

"I'm wanting nothing more than to bury my cock in you," Sherlock said, his words precise and somehow even more delightfully dirty when rumbled against John's bare chest. One of Sherlock's hands drifted down, fingertips skimming over solar plexus, stomach, hip bone, finding its way unerringly to John's straining prick. The touch of long, graceful fingers on his aching flesh made John give a strangled, keening cry that was cut short as soon as Sherlock's hand closed precisely around John's pulsing cock. "I will try to make this as good as I can, but you smell so...unbelievably...edible."

Teeth closed again on John's nipple as Sherlock's hand began to pump up and down on his cock and it took only a second or two before John was coming, Sherlock's name on his lips as his body shuddered through its first orgasm of his Heat.

The relief of orgasm was only momentary. As nice as it had felt to shoot his seed, during Heat it was not his cock that needed the attention. His normally quiescent female reproductive organs were running the show now and he could feel a warm, damp spot forming under his arse on the bed sheets as wetness spilled from him, lubricating his passage for an Alpha to Mate.

Sherlock waited until John's eyes opened before lifting his hand from John's still-hard prick, bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick the cum from them as John watched.

"God," John said, his voice shaking even on that one, short word. "God."

His hand clean of cum but still glistening slightly with his own saliva, Sherlock began unbuttoning his shirt and John noted with a distant part of his mind that Sherlock's hands were shaking. Sherlock of the iron control was coming apart in front of John, and he was coming apart _because_ of John. The thought made John writhe on the sheets, reaching towards Sherlock in mute invitation.

The buttons undone, Sherlock pulled his shirt off , John hungrily watching the muscles of Sherlock's chest and shoulders flex with the movement. Sherlock discarded the shirt next to John's vest on the floor. He unbuttoned his trousers and pulled the zip down, lifting his hips from the bed slightly to slide both the trousers and his pants from his hips, freeing a truly enormous cock.

Had it been any time but his Heat, John would have probably put the brakes on their sexual encounter once he saw Sherlock's cock simply due to the size of it. While it certainly wasn't the biggest John had seen - a title held by one of the Alphas he had known in the army, someone everyone called 'Horse' - it definitely was in the top three. But now, ridden by the hormone cocktail of his Heat, he only nodded wordlessly, staring with unabashed hunger.

"I know what I want to do," Sherlock said, his voice low and dark as his eyes slid up and down John's body, "but you need at least some prep work or this first time will be painful. As I've already said, I want you to want this." He gestured toward his own straining cock and then slid across the bed, nudging at John's knees with his own as he moved. "Open to me."

"Right," John whispered, his mouth dry as he stared at the lean form towering over him. He spread his legs wide around Sherlock, knees up and feet braced on the mattress, and the dark-haired man settled precisely between John's knees. His face was hungry as he took in what was on offer before him and a very faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

"Tell me if anything I do is unpleasant," Sherlock said and then John was arching his head back against the pillow as one long, slim finger slid precisely into his opening. The passage was already slick and the muscles relaxed eagerly at the invasion. Sherlock began a gentle back-and-forth slide with the single finger and, when John didn't protest, added a second. Sweat was beading on John's upper lip and he flicked his tongue out, licking it away, rewarded by Sherlock's quick inhalation at the sight and a speeding of the fingers thrusting into John's body.

John grabbed a double handful of the bed sheets, hands clenching and releasing in time with Sherlock's gentle probing. After a minute, he managed to whisper the word, "More" and Sherlock quickly acquiesced. The addition of the third finger made John writhe slightly and Sherlock changed his tactic. No longer was he slowly fucking John with his fingers; now he beckoned with them, curving and straightening deep inside of John's passage.

John's body responded enthusiastically with a fresh gout of wetness and Sherlock groaned softly.

"I sincerely hope that is sufficient prep," Sherlock said, his fingers sliding free. The bed shook as he leaned out to the bedside table, sliding it open and removing a foil-wrapped package. After a moment, Sherlock adjusted his position again, his hands landing on the mattress on either side of John's ribs, and John's eyes popped open as he felt a nudge at his passage. "I can't wait anymore."

John looked up, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's jaw was slightly clenched, the curls on his forehead damp with sweat. The muscles of his neck and shoulder were straining as they held Sherlock's body up from John's, Sherlock's hips braced to thrust.

"Do it then," John whispered, and Sherlock did.

He went slowly, despite how obviously they both wanted it to be fast. John's hips canted upward as the head of Sherlock's cock breached him, unbelievably hot and hard even through the thin material of the condom. Unable to focus on Sherlock's intense gaze while being filled so deliciously, John's eyes slammed shut and he voiced a long, helpless groan. Inch by inch, Sherlock slid himself into John. John's passage was spasming around Sherlock's huge cock, fluttering at the sudden stretch. As his groan slowly fell to silence, John realized Sherlock was murmuring under his breath.

"Slowly. Slowly. Slowly." Sherlock repeated the single word like a mantra, his expression tight. His arms were absolutely shaking on either side of John as he held himself back from plunging in. He was being incredibly careful and the realization of not only how much control but how much caring that would take sent a wave of near-orgasmic pleasure through John's body. He shuddered, releasing the bed sheets to reach up and wrap his strong hands around Sherlock's upper arms.

"No more slowly," he said, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Please. Just fuck me. Now, Sherlock. Now."

And he did.

The slow, careful glide ended in one hard thrust, Sherlock's cock bottoming out in John as Sherlock's hips met John's arse with a decisive slap. John barely had a moment to adjust to the full invasion before Sherlock was drawing back and then thrusting forward again, slamming into John's body over and over and over.

And now it was John repeating a mantra over and over, helplessly. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Ah, yes!"

John felt his orgasm building and began writhing, his fingers clawing at Sherlock's arms.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered on the barest exhalation of sound. "For me, John."

And that sent John over the edge. Waves of pleasure rippled through his entire body and he felt his passage tightening around Sherlock rhythmically as John's own cock painted his belly with his own seed for a second time.

With John's orgasm, Sherlock's knot began forming. Each thrust became more intense as Sherlock worked to bury it within John's passage, trying to squeeze the growing knot past the tight entrance. Still humming with pleasure from his orgasm, John lifted trembling legs to wrap around Sherlock's hips, crossing his ankles over the tremblingly tight muscles in Sherlock's arse, tipping his own hips even higher up to help.

With an almost audible pop, Sherlock thrust the knot into John's willing body, voicing a low moan of pleasure at the feeling. John felt an aftershock tremble through him at the increased sensation of being stretched so wide and that was all it took to send Sherlock over the edge. His knot swelled, locking them together, and his arms gave out, dropping his chest onto John's heavily. He buried his face into the crook of John's shoulder and neck, tongue laving at the spot where a mark would go. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders tightly, not caring what happened next as he felt Sherlock's cock twitching deep inside of him. John felt the faintest brush of teeth against his neck and he twisted his head away, baring his neck to Sherlock. But the mark didn't come. Sherlock pressed his nose against the spot instead, shuddering as he whispered John's name over and over and over, body shaking with his orgasm.

Sherlock finally went limp against John's body and John raised one hand to draw it idly through the damp curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck, stroking him gently. They were still locked together by Sherlock's knot and would be for many minutes more. Sherlock's breath was a hurricane in John's ear and every now and then, a tremor would ripple through Sherlock as his cock gave another twitch deep inside John's body, shooting more seed into the condom.

Wordlessly, John turned his face and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's sweat-damp forehead. Locked together, their scents mingling, bodies temporarily sated, they both drifted in a half doze. No words were needed.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omegaverse sex continues in this chapter. If it squicks you, skim or skip the Then portion (although, honestly, the sex is much more subtle this chapter; it's more conversation-while-knotted than hot-monkey-sex).

**Now  
**

John hated to admit that he felt more himself without the moustache on his upper lip. It had been something he'd been trying out and it obviously hadn't worked for him. Not that he would be thanking Sherlock for that particular revelation. 

And yes, he knew he would be seeing Sherlock again soon. He was not so foolish as to think that he would be able to keep himself away from Sherlock indefinitely. He'd somewhat hoped he'd be able to hold out longer than _this_ , though. Not even 24 hours after Sherlock had revealed that he was, in his own words, 'not dead' and John was already seeking him out. 

John had left the clinic at 5pm and, rather than taking his usual train back towards his small flat, he found himself heading towards the train that would eventually land him at Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes always drew John back, no matter how hard John tried to resist the other man. 

_'Doesn't mean I need him,'_ John told himself firmly. _'I just want an explanation. I just have to know why he left me in the dark for two years. That's all. And I might need to throttle him a bit more, too.'_

Mary had been understanding when he'd told her he was leaving at 5pm rather than staying behind to finish adding notes to the patient charts. That was their usual routine: taking an additional 20 to 30 minutes to finish paperwork in the evenings before leaving the clinic. Sometimes they went to dinner together and sometimes Mary had plans with friends. Very occasionally, John would go out for a pint with some rugby mates that he'd gotten to know in the last few months but usually he preferred being alone in the evenings. After a day of putting on a professional face for person after person, all he wanted in the evenings was to be himself, no mask necessary. 

And that was exactly why he was going to 221B Baker Street, John realized. With Sherlock, there was never a mask necessary. 

He found himself hesitating on the walk outside the flat, questioning his own desire to see Sherlock. Was this healthy? Wasn't he just rubbing salt into a wound that had barely begun healing? 

John turned away from the flat, clenching his hands into fists, meaning to leave. He would go back to the clinic. He would help Mary. Surely she would still be there, finishing making notations in charts or putting them away for filing the next day. He could take her to dinner again, maybe successfully get the marriage proposal out. 

But then he found he was turning back towards the flat again. He didn't want to go back to the clinic or even to his own flat. He wanted... _needed_ to see Sherlock again. All right. He would get an explanation and then he'd leave. 

John was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, he didn't notice the other pedestrian on the walk until the stranger collided with him, half-spinning John. 

The man continued without a word of apology and John turned to glare after the rude stranger, calling "Excuse you!" with a sarcastic twist to the words. He never saw the second man come up behind him and didn't even have a chance to properly struggle before the hypodermic needle in his neck injected him with something that sent his consciousness spinning away into the evening air. 

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

"Hungry?" 

The soft murmur against John's ear made him stir from his half-doze and he blinked his eyes open. Sherlock lay next to him on the bed, his head pillowed on his own arm, his eyes heavy-lidded as they stared unerringly at John. 

John shifted cautiously. No, they were no longer locked together. John felt achingly empty now and he turned towards Sherlock, throwing one leg over the other man's hip and drawing their bodies together. John pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's mouth and the other man reciprocated willingly, gently curving his free arm around John's waist to pull them even closer together. It was more physical closeness than John had ever expected from Sherlock. It was gentleness outside of sex, touching without the excuse of Heat hormones turned high, and John reveled in the moment. 

When they finally broke the kiss, John tucked his head into Sherlock's chest, forehead pressing into the bare skin. 

"I could eat," John admitted. "But we probably don't have time for much before the next hormone surge." 

"Toast?" Sherlock suggested, his lips against John's hair. "Tea?" 

"Sounds good," John agreed. "Do you want me to -" 

"I'm perfectly capable of making toast and tea," Sherlock said. "But it does mean I'll need to leave the bed." 

"Mmm," John murmured, tightening his leg over Sherlock's hip. "Maybe we don't need to eat just yet." 

"Everything I've read indicates that it is necessary to take in at least some calories every two to four hours during a Heat to prevent precipitous weight loss in the participants," Sherlock said and John laughed softly, closing his eyes and rubbing the tip of his nose against Sherlock's chest. 

"Are _you_ actually planning to eat?" 

"John," Sherlock said, his voice faintly scolding. "I avoid eating during cases because digestion slows my thoughts. I'm not going to be doing too much thinking during your Heat." 

"True," John said before pressing a laughing kiss to Sherlock's upper arm. Grudgingly, he unwound himself from the taller man's body. "All right. Two slices of toast for me with extra butter. And I don't take sugar in my tea - especially potentially drugged sugar." 

"I know," Sherlock said with a wry look. He rolled out of the bed, his movements languid and relaxed after their intense sexual encounter. He glanced at his housecoat crumpled on the chair beside the wardrobe before turning and walking out of the bedroom, still gloriously nude. 

John could hear the rustle of the bread wrapper and the click of the kettle turning on as he luxuriated in the simple pleasure of being in Sherlock Holmes' bed. He rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's pillow, breathing deeply. The mingling of his and Sherlock's scents was delightful, even better than the slowly rising scent of toasting bread from the kitchen. He wanted to wrap himself in the resulting perfume of their blended essences and wallow. 

He realized he was getting hard again and sighed softly. Ah, good. Round two. Tea and toast would have to wait. 

He grabbed a handful of condoms from the bedside table and rolled from the bed. 

The second time was more frantic than the first. Sherlock had swept half of his experiments off the kitchen table - those same experiments that were far too important for him to leave behind for the duration of John's heat - to make room for him to lean John over the table and fuck him hard from behind, hands clenching on John's hips as he drove himself into the Omega's willing body over and over to the rumble of the boiling kettle. 

In the afterglow, while they were still held together by Sherlock's knot buried deep inside John's body, John rested his cheek and chest comfortably over the table top, laughing against his upper arm as Sherlock laid his chest along John's back and catalogued the mixing chemical odors of the destroyed experiments in a lazy whisper in John's ear, interspersing languid licks and kisses against the side of John's neck between sentences. 

When Sherlock's knot finally shrank enough for them to uncouple, John turned the kettle back on to boil while Sherlock mopped up the spilled liquids, carefully avoiding the broken glass from shattered beakers, microscope slides, and Petri dishes. Once the majority of the liquid was mopped up, he swept the glass up and then joined John at the cleared half of the table, sipping hot tea and devouring his own two slices of toast while John watched him with a warm smile. 

Their third coupling took place in the bathroom where John had gone to wash off some of the sweat from their first two enthusiastic encounters. Sherlock came in to find John being ridden by a new wave of hormones and fingering himself under the hot spray, his back against the cold shower wall, and had happily taken over for the Heat-ridden Omega. 

It was there in the shower that Sherlock stopped resisting temptation. They were locked together, John panting through the aftershocks of his own orgasm, his forearms and forehead braced against the shower wall, as Sherlock made small thrusts into John's body, unable to pull out due to the swollen knot tying them together. John was still tingling all over when Sherlock leaned forward, his chest against John's back, and begin licking the side of John's neck again. He'd been doing that each time they'd had sex, nuzzling and mouthing at the spot where he would bite John if they were to bond themselves to each other as a Mated pair. 

"I don't mind," John said softly, the words almost lost under the rush of the shower spraying down on them. 

Sherlock froze, his lips pressed against the side of John's neck. He had one arm braced on the wall next to John's head but the other was encircling John's ribs and John felt a slight, surprised spasm in Sherlock's fingers against his chest. 

"What?" Sherlock said in a low voice, his lips moving against John's neck. 

"If you Mark me," John said, keeping his eyes shut and his forehead against the wall. He knew how stupid he was being. This was the first day of their first Heat together. Sherlock had expressed an interest in spending other Heats together, but that didn't mean anything. Maybe Sherlock was just ready to start indulging in a normal sex drive. 

"You don't realize what you're asking for," Sherlock said, still in the same low, dangerous voice. He lifted his head slightly, moving his mouth away from John's neck. "Being bound to me for the rest of your life? Why on earth would you ask for such a thing? If you weren't in the middle of your Heat -" 

"I am clear-headed right now," John said, lifting his forehead from the shower wall and turning, meeting Sherlock's gaze as best he could. It was surprisingly hard, considering he couldn't turn his lower body thanks to the knot tying them together. Even such a faint movement of his upper body made the joining point of their bodies strain slightly and Sherlock's jaw clenched, his breath blowing shakily out of his flared nostrils. "And I'm telling you, 'I don't mind.'" 

"Hardly a glowing endorsement of a lifelong bond," Sherlock muttered, sliding his hand down from John's chest to his hip, holding it still. "Please, don't move again. I'm...quite aroused and it is hard enough to concentrate without you...wiggling." 

"What do you want from me, Sherlock? Do you want a declaration of love?" John's tone was becoming angrier the longer this went on. God, what a complete cock up. His own hormone level was low thanks to the last orgasm and he was knotted to someone and having an _argument_. Brilliant. 

"Love." Sherlock scoffed the word, upper lip curling in derision. "Oxytocin and seratonin and dopamine, hormones and neurotransmitters telling us to bond ourselves to someone and create lots of little someones with them."

"Jesus," John said, turning back to the shower wall and letting his head fall against the tile. "Forget it. Forget I said anything. Just... can you hurry up and get off so I can get _out?_ " 

For a moment, the only sound was the hiss of the water falling to the shower floor. Sherlock's hand still rested lightly on John's hip, his fingers splayed over the jut of bone, their only point of contact beyond the incredibly intimate joining of hips to arse. John was silently berating himself, cursing his own stupidity for thinking that Sherlock would be receptive to something as emotional as bonding. He was so busy criticizing his own life choices that he almost missed Sherlock speaking softly. 

"John. Just because I know all the hormones and chemicals that cause the emotional state you call 'love' doesn't mean that I am immune to them." Sherlock's fingers caressed John's hip bone, sliding bump-bump-bump over the ridge repetitively. Sherlock lowered his head, nuzzling again at the side of John's neck, lips brushing repeatedly over the spot where neck and shoulder joined, almost teasing at the skin. "I don't need a declaration of love, John. I just want to know that you want this." His mouth opened, teeth pressing softly - so softly - against the spot that he had just been rubbing his lips over. John knew what was under the skin there, just below the epidermal layer: a small pocket of hormones and chemicals that would react to the corresponding hormones in the saliva of an Alpha, should the Alpha breach it with their teeth. The chemical cocktail would effectively bind them together for life, a bond stronger than any wedding vow. And Sherlock's teeth were resting right over that spot. 

"You want to know...?" John's voice was tense, his pulse suddenly thundering in his throat and his chest felt tight with excitement. 

"That you _want_ this. You want me to bond myself to you. You want _me._ " 

John wished very much that he could turn and look at Sherlock's face properly. He wanted to know if the taller man's face matched his voice in that moment: raw, needy, hopeful, frightened, but above all, longing. 

"Jesus, Sherlock," he whispered against the shower tile, hands clenching into fists and forearms tightening where they were still braced against the wall. His eyes stung and he slammed them shut against the threatening tears. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want it. You're bloody insane and brilliant and gorgeous and sometimes I want to punch you but mostly I just want to be _with_ you, whatever it means at that moment. I don't care if you're being a tit or tackling a criminal or playing your bloody violin at half past three in the morning; I want you, just you, all the time." 

"We can't undo this, John," Sherlock said, his hand tightening on John's hipbone. "If we do this, we can't undo it." 

"I wouldn't want to," John said, and Sherlock voiced a long, low groan before he thrust his still-knotted cock into John. The quick, tight movements were slightly desperate and John arched his head to the side, knowing what was coming. 

"John." His name in Sherlock's mouth was desperate, beautiful, and - even though it was just a hormone cocktail, after all - loved. Then Sherlock was shuddering with his orgasm, both arms wrapping around John's chest and stomach, holding the shorter man tightly enough that John almost didn't notice when Sherlock's teeth closed against the muscle at the base of his neck, breaching the skin and the pocket of hormones just below the skin. 

"God!" John shouted, but it wasn't pain that pulled the oath from him. As soon as Sherlock's saliva mixed with the blend of chemicals held in John's neck, he went from slightly aroused to orgasming with no build up. It was a heady mixture of pleasure and pain and John's forehead smacked against the shower wall as he bucked against Sherlock's body, overwhelmed by the intensity of the orgasm. 

It seemed like only seconds passed, but as John opened his eyes, he realized that he was sitting in Sherlock's lap, his head lolling back on Sherlock's shoulder. They were still in the shower but on the floor now, Sherlock's long legs crossed at the ankle in front of John and his arms wrapped around John's body. Sherlock was stroking John's chest, murmuring softly. 

"Wake up now. John, I need you to wake up now." 

"Did I pass out?" John murmured, lifting his head slowly from Sherlock's shoulder. He winced slightly; the side of his neck was tender and he seemed to have a headache forming. 

"Apparently," Sherlock said. "Are you all right now?" 

"Uh...yeah, getting there," John muttered. "How long have I been out?" 

"At least ten minutes," Sherlock said. "I was beginning to wonder if there was a special number I needed to call. 999 didn't seem like the right choice for 'stuck inside my unconscious, unresponsive newly-bonded Mate.'" 

"Heh... yeah, I can see how that would be uh... ten minutes, you said?" 

"Hmm. Roughly." 

"So, how much longer will we be knotted?" John asked, shifting slightly to bring his knees up, bracing his feet on the floor of the shower to better support his body weight on something other than Sherlock's pelvis. 

"Ah. Right. Um... actually, I don't know. I had only done preliminary research on bonding. I thought it would be another Heat cycle or two before I could talk you into it." 

"Talk me _into_ it?" John asked, turning to raise his eyebrows at Sherlock. 

"I thought being bonded to me would take a little more convincing," Sherlock said, brow furrowing at John's expression. "I had no idea it would be your suggestion. So, unfortunately, I don't actually know if this," and he rolled his hips against John, causing John to release a soft moan of pleasure as Sherlock's still-hard cock twitched inside of him, "is going to go down as quickly as the last two or if it's going to take a little longer." 

"In that case, can we lean forward to nudge the tap a bit? The water's getting cold." 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for playing hell with the canon 'The Reichenbach Fall' timeline in the Then portion of the chapter. I realize Sherlock and John found out about the assassins the same day that they helped with the US ambassador's kidnapped children and ran from arrest; just keep chanting 'Alternate timeline.'
> 
> Also, double update for Saturday because I'm ahead on chapter edits, yaaay!

**Now  
**

John went from out cold to awake in only seconds. He didn't need a long period of disorientation to remember being attacked on the walk outside Sherlock's flat, although figuring out where he was at the moment proved to be a harder problem to work out. 

Dimly, he could hear excited children shouting. The sound kept fading in and out though, and John thought it was perhaps a radio signal that was fluctuating until he realized that it wasn't the sounds that were fading in and out; it was him. Whatever he had been injected with was wearing off slowly and wasn't willingly letting him rise fully to consciousness.

He tried to turn his head to take in his surroundings but his muscles responded weakly, twitching and spasming at his commands. Calling for help proved as pointless as trying to roll over. Nothing was responding right.

_'Unsurprising, though,'_ John thought bitterly. _'Sherlock Holmes comes back from the dead and John Watson gets attacked.'_

John concentrated on getting his muscles back online, trying to twitch his fingers or his toes. It took many long minutes before he was able to clench his fists at his command but it was an improvement. Having finally managed the small act of moving his own hands, he worked to try and move his arms or legs. His vision was improving by degrees, some small amount of light filtering to him through... were those _branches?_ Had someone chucked him into a woodpile? 

_'I should've stayed to work on charts with Mary,'_ John chastised himself. _'I could be reading in my own flat instead of struggling around in someone's woodpile.'_

It wasn't until someone started throwing petrol on the wood above him that John began to panic.

His breath stuttered in his chest as he tried to pull in a lungful to shout. His lungs, apparently, weren't as quick to recover as his fingers had been. His larynx, also, seemed to be having a rough time coming back to full working order. His shouts were muted and too soft to filter through all the raucous noise outside the woodpile. And then someone thrust a burning stick into the wood near John's legs and his shouts were completely drowned out by the roar of the fire catching the petrol and piled wood. 

_'This is it. This is the end.'_ John tried to thrash away from the heat, clawing at the bare earth beneath him, but all his movements were jerky and uncoordinated. The air was quickly becoming unbreathably hot and thick with smoke. _'I can't... not like this. I haven't had a chance to tell Sherlock...'_

As he began to slip, succumbing to both the lingering drug in his system and the noxious smoke, he thought he heard a familiar, deep voice shouting "Move!" and his name, repeated frantically. Summoning up the last bit of his waning strength, John shouted, "Help!" as loudly as he could, hoping it would be enough. 

There was a huge commotion from behind him and cool air swept over his skin. He was drifting away, but he thought, dimly, he saw Sherlock's face above him before he lost his tenuous grip on reality and slipped away. 

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

It had taken three days to get through John's Heat and they had exhausted their supply of bread. Sherlock had taken to opening tins from the cupboard and they had been sharing them in cold spoonfuls between couplings. John had thought that once he had been marked, his Heat would become less intense but it had, if anything, gotten worse. Conversation had been all but impossible over the last three days and it seemed like the moments of clarity between frantic fucking had been shorter and shorter. 

"Something to do with the chemical... things," Sherlock had tried to explain at one point, but John had fallen on him licking and sucking as a fresh wave of hormones surged through him and explanations had fallen by the wayside. 

John woke up, limbs tangled with Sherlock's, at sunrise on the third day. Everything ached and his mouth felt parched; probably slight dehydration. But, he no longer felt frantically horny. In fact, he felt like he wanted nothing so badly as a wee. 

He began carefully untangling himself from Sherlock and the other man groaned softly, one long arm coming up to cover his eyes. "If you want another go, John, you're going to have to handle it yourself this time. I might actually die if I try to move right now." 

John gave a soft snort of laughter, sliding off the bed. "No. Going to the loo." 

Sherlock raised his arm slightly, exposing his eyes. "Do you think this Heat's over?" 

"I don't know how you manage to sound both hopeful and depressed at the same time," John said, stretching carefully and listening to all the various pops and crackles from his joints. "I think maybe it is, though. This is the first time I've been woken up by something other than a raging hard on." 

"Will you be coming back to bed?" Sherlock asked. 

John glanced at the bed - the sheets stained and rumpled - and pulled a face. "I think not until I've showered, _you've_ showered, and the sheets have been changed." 

Sherlock rolled slightly, taking in the state of the bed, glancing down at himself, and then looking back up at John. "Probably wise," he agreed. 

John took his time in the bathroom, lingering in the shower for longer than he normally would have done. The hot water felt unbelievably good on his aching body and he'd had to soap up twice before he began to smell almost human again. The last time he'd been in the shower had been three days before when Sherlock had - 

His had flew to his neck and he hissed in a sharp breath as his fingers brushed over the scabbed, slightly inflamed bite mark. His pulse sped and a wave of adrenaline crashed through him. Bonded. He was bonded to Sherlock Holmes. 

The bathroom door crashed open, slamming forcefully against the wall, and John jumped, spinning in the shower. "Christ, Sherlock! What the _hell_ are you thinking?" 

"I felt something... you were in danger," Sherlock said, eyes wide and searching the bathroom. "I see now that you obviously aren't, but something..." 

"The mark," John said, half laughing. "The bloody mark. You're getting echoes of my emotional state through it. I've heard that can happen, especially in the first few months when the bond is still new." 

"Your emotional state?" Sherlock pulled back into the hall slightly, brow furrowing. "You think you're in danger?" 

"No, no, no," John said quickly, reaching to turn the taps off, grabbing his towel as he stepped out of the shower and onto the mat. "I just had a little burst of adrenaline when I remembered that we were bonded. Not a bad thing and not dangerous. Just adrenaline." 

"Right." Sherlock paused, eyes flicking to John, to the hallway, to the shower, and then back to John. "Right. I should wash, too." 

"Ah. Yes, please," John said, gesturing toward the shower as he grabbed his robe off the sink. "I'll just see if I can get some proper hot food on, yeah?" 

"And phone Lestrade, would you? Let him know we're available to solve the Yard's cases again." 

"Right," John agreed and walked toward the bedroom to the sound of the shower running behind him. Sherlock's mobile was on the floor next to the bedside table and the battery was completely run down, so John plugged it in to charge before heading upstairs to his own bedroom to find clean clothes; he could call Lestrade later. Sherlock wanting a new case to occupy his mind was no emergency. 

Dressed and fed on the meager rations that remained in the kitchen after nearly a week without shopping, John and Sherlock lazed in the sitting room, enjoying cups of tea before rejoining the world at large. Their armchairs were pushed slightly closer together, allowing Sherlock to pretend he wasn't stretching his legs towards John so John could press the sides of his feet against the sides of Sherlock's. 

"I think I'd probably better go to the store," John said, breaking the companionable silence. "We're out of practically everything." 

"That's fine," Sherlock murmured, staring into the distance and seemingly focusing on nothing. "Did Lestrade have anything to offer?" 

"Oh, right. Your mobile was dead; I plugged it in to charge. It should be done by now. You can text him yourself while I'm running to the shops." 

Sherlock grimaced faintly but didn't offer a complaint. Finishing his tea, John rose from his armchair with a contented sigh. 

"Leaving?" Sherlock asked, his gaze focusing as he turned to look at John. 

"Shopping," John reminded him. "I'll be back in an hour." 

Which was how John wound up standing in front of a Chip and Pin machine with a flashing error message when he went to get funds for the shopping trip. His frustration at technology melted into a resigned weariness at cloak and dagger tactics when his name flashed on the machine's screen. 

So, rather than going to buy food, John found himself sitting across from Mycroft Holmes, the elder and more annoying Holmes brother, while across London Sherlock was receiving Lestrade's repeated desperate messages about the British ambassador to the United States's missing children. The pieces were in play for a catastrophic end to their newly formed bond, and John Watson, standing in a ridiculously posh sitting room and listening to Mycroft prattle, had no idea. 

John raised a hand, stopping Mycroft mid-sentence. "Look, we already know all this. You told me all of this a week ago, Mycroft. Why on earth would you need to repeat the same information about Moriarty - who, incidentally, I still don't think is involved - and the assassins that're watching the flat?" 

"Because of what has changed," Mycroft said pointedly, inclining his head slightly towards John. So, Mycroft knew about his and Sherlock's bond. Of course, he did. Working in Intelligence, it was likely that Mycroft had enjoyed a first-row seat to the majority of the Heat thanks to hidden cameras in the flat. John wouldn't have put it past him to have had the whole place bugged floor to ceiling. 

Fighting the urge to fidget at the collar of his coat to cover the fresh mark at the back of his neck, John stared Mycroft down. "And why would that matter?" 

"You were already a point of interest for anyone seeking to harm Sherlock," Mycroft said, pretending to pick a bit of lint off of one immaculate sleeve. "As his bonded Mate, you've become even more important to him." 

"Yeah, well, it's a bit too late to change that now," John said, letting his anger out in his voice. 

"I realize that," Mycroft said soothingly, leaning back into the comfortable embrace of the armchair. "I wouldn't want to change it even if it were possible to. I would even go so far as to say 'welcome to the family' if I thought you'd take it gracefully." 

John scoffed softly, looking away from Mycroft in disbelief. 

"Believe it or not, John, I truly do think you are a perfect match for my brother. I knew almost from our first conversation that this is where your relationship would end up: the consulting detective Alpha and his bonded Mate." Mycroft smiled faintly before his face became serious again and he leaned forward slightly in his armchair, fixing John with a hard stare. "I'm merely warning you to be aware of increased danger. Be vigilant. You know of the assassins; perhaps try to avoid drawing any more of their attention than you have to. You've both managed to keep fairly low profiles for the last week. You could continue like that indefinitely." 

"Sherlock would never go for that," John said decisively. "He's already looking for a new case." 

"Of course," Mycroft said with a resigned sigh. "I just want you to be aware, John -" 

"I'm aware of plenty," John said, turning to leave. "Thanks for the chat, but I had shopping I needed to get." 

"John." Mycroft's tone made him stop but he didn't bother looking back. "If it is Moriarty, and all the evidence I've seen so far has convinced me that it must be, he will move on Sherlock soon." 

"I'll be watching out for Sherlock," John said, voice low and dangerous. "Same as I always have." And John walked away from Mycroft, shaking the man's warnings off as he went. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Now**

"I'm not going in to work today, Mary," John said, pulling a jumper over his head before bringing his mobile back up to his ear. "Someone tried to kill me last night; I think I've earned a sick day."

"John, you can't just start ignoring your life simply because Sherlock is back," Mary said, cutting to the heart of the problem.

"That's not what's happening," John said, but he couldn't even convince himself and Mary scoffed through the phone at the words.

"You think I don't know what's happening? You spent two years pining after him and he's not been back two _days_ and suddenly you won't stay to do the client charts and you can't come into work."

"Mary," John said, keeping his voice even, "jealousy doesn't suit you."

"I am _not_ jealous of Sherlock Holmes." Mary's outrage carried through the phone just fine and John pressed his lips together at his own idiocy, lowering himself to sit on the edge of his bed to slide his feet into his shoes. 

"Right. No. Sorry. I shouldn't have said that." 

"No, you shouldn't have," Mary said, still sounding injured. 

"I'm sorry, Mary." John paused for a moment and then cleared his throat. "Look, if what Sherlock said about there being some terrorist plot to blow up London is true, then doesn't it seem likely that kidnapping me and tipping me into a bonfire might be connected? I mean, how many lunatics do you think are actually running around London?" 

"Loads," Mary said without hesitation and John smiled faintly. 

John trapped the phone between his cheek and shoulder, freeing his hands to tie his shoes as he continued his conversation with Mary. "I just think that if the two things are connected, it wouldn't be a bad idea to talk to Sherlock and figure out what I can do to safeguard myself." He paused and added, his tone lightly teasing, "And safeguard you. After all, you're my fiancée now; it's my duty to protect you." 

Mary snorted a quick laugh. "I'm the Alpha in this relationship, John; it's _my_ duty to protect _you_."

"God, we're not going to fall back into those old gender roles, are we? I've never taken you for a traditionalist. Besides, I've always prided myself on being the most Alpha Omega out there."

"And you are," Mary said quickly. "And it's quite sexy." 

"It is," John agreed. 

"But you'll have to excuse me if I have a little trouble with my fiancé skipping work to go to his ex's flat and talk." 

John was silent. There was nothing he could say to that, and there was nothing Mary could say that would convince him it was a bad idea to see Sherlock today. They were at a stalemate and, after a moment of hissing silence over the phone line, Mary seemed to realize the same thing. 

"Fine, fine," Mary said, capitulating. "But don't you dare come crying to me if he breaks your heart again." 

John gave a short, humorless laugh. "There is no way I'm going to fall back into destructive old habits, Mary. I won't be crying." 

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

When John had awakened to the sunrise the day before, he had assumed that life would continue as it had for the last two years with Sherlock Holmes... with the small addition of a new bond between them. He had assumed that Sherlock would run on mad adventures and he would chase after, safeguarding Sherlock when he was too brilliant to see the obvious danger. He had thought... but he had been wrong. 

No one stood on the edge of a tall building's roof unless they were serious about it. Even daredevils had some small part of them whispering 'Yes, yes, let's just see what happens this time. Maybe this time will be the last time.' And Sherlock was no thrill-seeking daredevil standing on the edge of a roof for the adrenaline rush. 

The phone in his hand felt so insubstantial, the most tenuous connection between John on the street and Sherlock on the roof. The bond bite on the side of John's neck, still tender and healing, felt so much more real than even Sherlock's voice, speaking nothing but lies, crackling in his ear through the headset of the phone. 

"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you." John heard a sniff through the phone and the knowledge that Sherlock was crying nearly made John come undone. He was fairly twitching with his desire to race to the roof and tackle Sherlock away from the edge. But Sherlock had told him not to move and when suicidal fools make requests of you, you tried to honor them for as long as you could keep the fool from killing themselves. If keeping Sherlock talking would stop him from jumping, John would stand on the street for the rest of his life. 

"It's just a trick," Sherlock said softly. "Just a magic trick." 

John shut his eyes, disbelief washing through him as he shook his head in negation of everything Sherlock was saying. He was acting insane, even for Sherlock. He was lying - John knew he was lying, he had to be. But all he was getting through their bond was sorrow. God, such deep, all-encompassing sorrow. 

"No. All right, stop it now." John said firmly and he moved towards St. Bart's, meaning to drag Sherlock down by the hem of his Belstaff if he had to. 

"No, stay _exactly_ where you are! Don't move." 

The words were frantic and John backed up quickly, holding his hand up soothingly towards Sherlock. Above him, Sherlock mirrored the move, his own hand rising in the air. "All right," John said, willing Sherlock not to jump with each trembling inhalation he managed to squeeze past the constriction of his chest. 

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" 

"Do what?" John asked. Panic and sorrow; why couldn't the bond tell him something _useful?_ What good was being Sherlock's Mate if the bond couldn't warn him that Sherlock felt so cornered by circumstances that _killing himself_ had become a viable option in his head? Their bond was only two bloody days old; shouldn't John have been able to practically read Sherlock's mind? 

"This phone call, it's, er... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they - leave a note?" 

And there it was. Sherlock was acknowledging what he was doing on the edge of the roof. John had seen men kill themselves before and he knew what it meant when someone flirting with suicide boldly acknowledged what they were doing. The phone sagged away from his ear as the horror of it swept over him in a choking wave, his own panic screaming through the bond in an echo of Sherlock's. But the phone was his line to Sherlock, his chance to talk him down, and he quickly brought it back up to his ear. 

"Leave a note when?" Keep him talking. Just keep him talking. Surely someone would see the tall, dark-clothed man standing at the edge of the hospital roof soon and call for help. If John could just keep him talking long enough, officials would come and they would get Sherlock down and help him and everything would be okay. 

"Goodbye, John." 

John's throat tightened, choking his voice. He needed to be brilliant now. He needed to say something to let Sherlock know that it wasn't worth taking that last, fatal step. There had to be something he could use to convince Sherlock... but all John could squeeze past the tightness in his throat was, "No. Don't." 

John watched Sherlock throw his arms wide and heard through his headset the clatter of Sherlock's phone on the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital as Sherlock dropped it. The connection was broken. The phone was useless. John dropped it away from his ear as he raised his own voice in helpless desperation, reaching with his entire soul towards his Alpha balancing on the edge of the roof. "No. _Sherlock!"_

The shout was so loud that, for a moment, John truly believed that it would hold Sherlock up. It could defy gravity. It would stop Sherlock from falling until John could get there. But the shout faded and gravity was too irrevocable to overcome and Sherlock was plummeting, a black blur against the grey stone of the building. His arms were windmilling and his legs were kicking uselessly against the air and everything in John fell with his mate as he whispered Sherlock's name in disbelief. There was a thud, final and undeniable. 

The world had gone insane. Time twisted and John was trying to run but it was like a nightmare and nothing would work right. John was slow, much too slow, but everything in him was focused on Sherlock because the bond was still working and the bond should be shattered if Sherlock was dead. John would have a chance to make up for his own stupid inability to say the right things and he would not have to live with the sudden painful knowledge that the last words he'd spoken to Sherlock's face had been a furious insult. 

John rounded the corner of the ambulance station, still moving too slowly. But it didn't matter that time had gone completely insane because the bond was still there and therefore it was _Sherlock_ lying on the ground and not _Sherlock's body_. Time could go insane if it wanted to as long as Dr. John Watson had a chance to help his mate. 

Something crashed into John, sweeping him off of his feet and smashing his skull bruisingly into the asphalt below him. John had thought nothing made sense moments before, but the blow to his head took reality and gave it a firm shake before dropping it upside-down around John. For a moment, the bond was gone and John struggled to rise from the pavement as a crushing wave of grief tried to grind him into the cold asphalt beneath him. But in between one slow blink and the next, the bond was back. It stuttered in and out of existence like a radio with poor reception. One moment, Sherlock was undeniably alive but the next moment Sherlock could only be dead. 

John struggled to his feet, weaving unsteadily. His head throbbed from the collision with the asphalt and his chest ached with loss. John had to check. He had to know. The crowd wouldn't move, though, and no one was listening to what he was saying and no one could hear what he meant to say. 

"Please, he's my friend," John said, reaching toward Sherlock, but what he meant to say was, _'He's my everything.'_

He managed to touch Sherlock's wrist and the skin was still warm. For a moment, the bond flickered and John felt his heart lift. Alive. Definitely alive. There was still a chance. 

But someone pulled John away and the bond fluttered out again. Medics arrived, loading Sherlock's bonelessly flopping body onto a stretcher, and his blood-smeared face turned momentarily towards John and John felt understanding flare through him as he watched them rushing away. He knew what dead looked like. Captain John Watson had seen 'dead' before. 

"Ah, Jesus, no," John said, everything inside of him caving as he accepted what his eyes and the bond were telling him. 

Yesterday morning, that face had watched him from a pillow, asking if he were coming back to bed. _'Yes,'_ he should have said. _'Right now.'_

Yesterday morning, those legs had tangled around John's in bed. John should have ignored basic biology for a moment more to inhale Sherlock's scent. 

Yesterday morning, that body had stormed the bathroom, alerted by their bond that something was wrong. There was nothing to feel through the bond now. 

"God, no," John murmured, staring at the blood pooled on the paving stones in front of him. He struggled to his feet, turning his eyes to the last place he had seen Sherlock's body before it was wheeled out of sight. It was not yesterday morning anymore, and now his mate was just a body on a stretcher. Gone. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Now  
**

John was standing in 221B again and, for a small breath of time, he could pretend that the past two years had been some horrific nightmare. Sherlock stood before him, tall and lean and draped in his dressing gown like a king in his robes looking over his court. The flat still needed airing out, the musty smell of two years' stagnation clinging to everything, but Sherlock's own particular scent - cigarettes, woody shampoo and conditioner, and Sherlock's mouth-watering Alpha fragrance - was slowly pushing the emptiness back, mixing with the fresh chemicals that John could see in the kitchen. Sherlock's experiments were back where they belonged, cluttering the table -

_Sherlock's long arm sweeping Petri dishes of eyeballs and a rack of test tubes with different colored solutions off of the table, glass exploding on the kitchen floor as he bent John forward. John's chest colliding with the table top and John not caring because he needed Sherlock so very badly, could feel the wetness of his need absolutely streaming down his thighs, would go utterly screaming mad if Sherlock didn't -_

John looked away from the kitchen, clearing his throat and trying to shake off the memory. Sherlock was saying something about Mycroft and Les Mis and John scrambled to remember what they'd just been talking about.

"Those were your parents? Well... that is not what I..." He let the sentence trail away as he moved to stare out the window of the flat. It looked as if he were taking a second, longer perusal of the elder Holmeses but John stared at nothing, still struggling to find his equilibrium now that he was back in 221B.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his voice cautious.

"I-I mean, they're just so..." He looked back at Sherlock, taking in the narrow-eyed glare Sherlock had locked onto him. "Ordinary."

Sherlock gave a soft, dismissive tut. "It's a cross I have to bear."

"Did they know, too?" John hadn't meant to ask that and he nearly cringed at letting it slip out. He hadn't meant to start another round of 'was there anyone in the entire UK besides me that didn't know?' But the question was out now and he couldn't take it back.

And Sherlock was refusing to meet his eyes, pretending to pick lint off his open laptop, behaving for all the world like a scolded child. "Hmmm?"

"That you spent the last two years playing hide-and-seek."

"...maybe."

Fury swelled in John's chest. Everyone had known. Everyone but poor, stupid John Watson had known. "Ah! So _that's_ why they weren't at the funeral!" The desire to leave was almost overwhelming. The lies were compounding around them, building up and growing thicker with every word.

"Sorry! Sorry _again!_ " Sherlock said defensively. It was almost worse than an apology. He spoke as if John were overreacting to being lied to. John had to clench his hands into fists at his sides to keep from reaching up to rub the spot on his neck where Sherlock's bond bite had been, a reminder of what they had been and obviously were no longer.

"Mm." He had to get out of the flat. He had to go or he wasn't going to be able to keep from trying to throttle Sherlock again. John was so deeply hurt and all he could think to do was try to share some of that pain with the one responsible for his suffering. He turned and moved towards the door, but Sherlock spoke again, his voice soft.

"Sorry."

John took a long, slow breath before turning to glance back at Sherlock, meeting his eyes for just a moment before looking away again. At least that apology had sounded more sincere. And if Sherlock could try to be sincere, John could try to hold on to his temper long enough to get the information he needed.

"I see that Mary accepted your proposal of marriage," Sherlock said, his eyes sliding away from John as he spoke, staring resolutely down at the floor.

"How could you possibly...? No, forget it. I don't care," John said, waving his question away. Sherlock glanced up at John, his face stricken for a brief moment before John looked away, refusing to acknowledge whatever emotion was on Sherlock's face. Sherlock had left _him_. John was simply moving on. It wasn't wrong to move on after someone left you.

The silence stretched between them, filled with things neither would say, and John cleared his throat. No more hesitation; he wanted the answers he had come looking for. "What happened?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, brow furrowing as he raised his head to look at John once again.

John clenched his jaw, flexing his fisted hands for a second before he raised one hand to brush his fingers over the back of his neck. Understanding crossed Sherlock's face, followed by the briefest flash of sorrow.

"Your bond Mark."

"Yeah. That." The words were sharp enough to cut and Sherlock flinched slightly at the rage that was obvious in John's face and voice.

"We decided that it was necessary to remove it. If anyone had seen it, it would have raised too many questions," Sherlock said, folding his hands behind his back. "I needed anyone associated with Moriarty's network to believe I was truly dead and leaving you behind with an active bond Mark would have alerted them that something wasn't what it seemed."

John's breaths were coming in tightly controlled pants and his vision was sparkling at the edges from the rising anger pounding in his head. "You said 'we.' I'm guessing you mean Mycroft, since he was your _confidante?_ "

"It was his plan."

"Ah." John turned away, meaning to pace and release some of the furious energy building up inside of him, but the floor of the flat was a minefield of open books and loose papers. John would have had to play hopscotch to effectively pace, so he immediately turned back to glare at Sherlock again, venting his furious energy through the heat in his question. "I thought the only way to break a bond was through the death of one of the Mates?"

"There is a drug that has been developed that can eliminate a bond as effectively as death. It is a closely guarded secret and still..." Sherlock paused and then wobbled one hand in the air before him. "Mmm, _slightly_ experimental, but Mycroft was able to secure a dose. It wasn't difficult to hide it in something you would eat."

"You..." John's voice failed him entirely for a moment. He had to take a sharp breath before he was able to get the rest of the sentence out and he felt hot all over, his fury absolutely pouring out of him. "You hid an _experimental drug_ in my food to let me believe that you were dead?"

"It was a necessity, John," Sherlock said quickly, taking a single step closer to the shorter man, his hands coming forward to tug uncomfortably at the edges of his robe. "I took no pleasure in the dissolving of our bond. It was as unpleasant for me as it was for you."

"And how do you know what it was like for me?" John asked, the volume of his voice climbing.

"Mycroft had cameras in the flat. After our bond had dissolved and I was able to move under my own agency again, I watched the recordings."

"That's it," John said, turning decisively back to the door to leave. "That's all I can take today. I _suffered_ , Sherlock!" He spun back to shout the last at the tall, dark haired man who was staring at John with such blank incomprehension on his face. "I spent five months holding on to whatever faint flickers I could get through that bond, convincing myself that life would be all right if I could pretend that you were alive somewhere in the world even thought I _knew_ I was wrong. And then one day, out of nowhere, absolute _agony!_ I spent almost a full day in so much pain that I couldn't even get off the floor to make it to the _loo!_ And you're telling me it was a _necessity?_ No. Sod this."

"I did it to protect you, John," Sherlock said quickly, stepping close enough to John that the shorter man could feel the heat of Sherlock's body along his back. John stopped with his hand resting on the doorknob, not leaving but not looking back at Sherlock, either. He could feel his pulse beating in his temples and his entire body felt hot with anger. He wanted to throttle Sherlock, despite the fact that Sherlock being that close to him was reminding John once again of just how wonderful the long-absent Alpha smelled. "I knew that if I were gone, it would take the target off of you. If someone saw that you were still connected to me in some way, they might have used you to try and hurt me and I couldn't take that risk."

John gripped the doorknob tightly, head bowed and eyes squeezed shut. What Sherlock was saying made perfect sense, but none of it changed how John felt. "I need to go," he said, his voice very soft and each word spoken with extreme precision. "I need to think."

"Will you be coming back?" Sherlock asked, and the words sent a stab of pain through John's entire body. For just a moment, he could hear an echo in his head: _'Will you be coming back to bed?'_

"I don't know," John whispered and left the flat.

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

"It's still working, then?" Mycroft asked, coming up behind Sherlock from the shadows of the abandoned warehouse, his voice echoing emptily in the huge building. "Your bond to Dr. Watson?"

"What the hell are you doing, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded, furious. His own voice bounced back from the walls and he lowered it quickly, speaking in a infuriated hiss. "Do you have any idea how easily this could compromise me? I've been successfully staying under the radar for _five months_ and you send a lackey to snatch me off the street -"

"By necessity, I'm afraid," Mycroft said, sounding slightly regretful as he came to a stop standing before his younger brother, resting his cane - an affectation, Sherlock knew, to make Mycroft look more impressive - next to his left shoe with precision. "We need to talk about your bond."

"What about it?" Sherlock asked, tugging at his too-large hoodie. He wasn't nearly warm enough in these clothes and he often longed for his Belstaff, but he was much too recognizable in it. It didn't help that he had lost weight in the last five months; there was not much time for leisurely cream teas while tracking down Moriarty's helpmates across the globe. The combination of weight loss and cheap clothes led him to feeling just slightly too cold at all times.

"Is it still intact? Can you still feel your Mate?" Mycroft asked, tapping his cane lightly against the side of one shiny shoe.

Sherlock's upper lip curled in annoyance before he sighed and shut his eyes, relaxing and allowing himself to reach toward the ever-present feeling of _John_ tucked in the back of his consciousness. He had locked the feelings away from his conscious mind, finding the constant hum of sorrow distracting, but there were times when he would open himself to it completely and just allow the pain to wash over him. It was all he had of John right now, and he held on to it with a kind of frantic urgency. As always, John's presence at the other end of the bond was full of a deep aching misery. Sherlock felt his face twist in echoing pain and yet could not pull himself back from it. It was like clutching a hot coal tighter _because_ of the burn.

"From your expression, I can surmise that the answer is a 'yes.' I had suspected as much. We're keeping an eye on Dr. Watson and we have noticed him touching the bond mark frequently, both in the privacy of 221B and on the public streets. It is becoming a liability."

"What?" Sherlock asked, snapping out of his reverie. "What do you mean, 'a liability'?"

"Tell me, Sherlock, what is the longest recorded incidence of a bonded Omega's mark surviving beyond the death of their Alpha?" Mycroft asked, his tone mild and conversational.

Sherlock frowned in confusion at the question. After a moment, understanding swept over him and his eyes widened fractionally. "Six months."

"And how long have you been presumed dead?"

"Five and a half months." Sherlock paced for a moment, a quick burst of movement as he fought his understanding. "I had hoped to be done by now, but it's proving harder than anticipated to track down all the elements..." Sherlock trailed off. It wasn't important. He stepped closer to Mycroft, glaring at his older brother. "What can we do, then? Remove John from the public eye so no one sees the Mark?"

"No, that would be much too disruptive. It would be noted by too many people if Dr. John Watson suddenly disappeared from London."

"Well, I can't _actually_ die to erase the mark, Mycroft. It would slow the investigation," Sherlock snapped.

"Of course not," Mycroft said with a chuckle. "I wasn't going to suggest that. There is a drug that might help us, though. It is somewhat experimental and has the interesting side effect that, when it is administered to a bonded Omega, it can completely erase a bond in both the Alpha and Omega."

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said, turning away with a dismissive wave. "I will not give up my bond to John."

"Then you must return to Baker Street at once, Sherlock. You will not be able to see your mission to completion."

"That would draw too many dangerous elements back to John," Sherlock said, throwing a murderous glare over his shoulder at Mycroft. "It is out of the question."

"Sherlock, you cannot remain away if you are going to leave your bond intact. If one of Moriarty's compatriots happens to check in on Dr. Watson and notice that he still has your mark upon his neck, what do you think would happen? Would they leave him alone on the off chance that he is just experiencing an unusually long-lasting mark after his Alpha's demise? Or would they perhaps try to torture him for days upon days to see if his pain would draw you back?"

The air went out of Sherlock's lungs in a rush and, for a moment, he couldn't take his next breath around the sudden squeezing pressure in his chest. He had not considered someone hurting John, not since he had left John behind in supposed safety. He had thought he was drawing the danger after him like the laser sight on a gun following its intended victim and leaving innocents behind. He had believed their bond would be safe until he could finish his mission and return. He had planned to utilize the power of the bond mark between them to aid him in convincing John that Sherlock did ardently admire him and had done all he'd done for the good of them both. Now, he was learning that unless he was willing to give up his Mate, he would have to give up the hunt and return to Baker Street, drawing Moriarty's hounds after him and right to John's door. The power of the knowledge nearly brought him to his knees.

Sherlock turned away from his brother, jaw clenching tight. He could not give up his bond with John. He had spent two years finding himself slowly becoming more and more distracted by his flatmate until it had been obvious, even to the usually emotionally-blind Sherlock himself, that what he felt for John went beyond the normal depths of emotion that Sherlock allowed himself. Somehow, John had sneaked through the walls Sherlock had built around himself and Sherlock hadn't even realized it until John was nestled comfortably inside, as much a part of Sherlock's inner workings as his kidneys or lungs.

Sherlock had ignored the Alpha side of his life since he first presented in early puberty. His body, being merely transport for his keen mind, was unimportant. And since 99% of being an Alpha was physical - sex and pheromones and posturing at other Alphas over Omegas - Sherlock had always assumed his Alpha nature was dismissible. He had held on to that assumption even after deciding to broach the subject of spending John's Heats together. It hadn't been until they were bonded that Sherlock had realized that there were multiple layers to being an Alpha and that some of the layers had nothing to do with the physical and everything to do with the mental and spiritual, as much as he would have liked to deny it.

John was with him at all times now, not just a memory in his head but a presence inside of him, subtle and stabilizing. Sherlock could not give that up.

But if he did not give up his Mate, he would be subjecting John to danger. His best guess put him out of London for at least another six months. John could be tortured to death a thousand times over in that amount of time. If the question became John's safety over Sherlock's desires, the answer was simple.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his voice soft.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," Mycroft said, standing up straighter.

"Yes, do it. Dissolve the bond."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly, staring at Sherlock for a beat. "You realize this will be incredibly painful for both you and Dr. Watson?"

"I'm aware."

"And it is irreversible, Sherlock. Once the bond has been erased, you cannot bring it back."

"Until John and I rebond," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with his annoyance at Mycroft's utter banality.

"He may not be willing to do that, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly. At Sherlock's ferocious expression, he raised one hand soothingly. "You have let him believe you are dead for the last five months. With the dissolving of the bond, he will know in his body and soul that you are truly gone. When you do return, you may not find yourself welcomed with open arms."

"No, John will forgive me. Once I have explained it to him, he will forgive me."

"So sure of his love, brother mine," Mycroft said, voice sad.

"No, there is no oath of 'love' between us. But I know John Watson. He is a devoted and overall reasonable man. He will understand. He will forgive me for taking the necessary steps to safeguard our continued safety."

"Very well," Mycroft said, taking his mobile from a pocket of his suit. He raised it to his ear. After a moment of silence, he said, "Sleeping Beauty is go. Confirm."

Sherlock scoffed slightly at the words, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie to warm his fingers.

Mycroft put the mobile away, looking over at his younger brother. "Come along, Sherlock. The car is waiting for us."

"What? I'm not going _with_ you, Mycroft; I've been following my current target for three days -"

"And sometime in the next hour, you will experience the severing of your bond with your Mate. You will be insensate with pain for a minimum of 12 hours and you will need to be somewhere secure while you suffer through it." Mycroft turned and began walking away, confident that Sherlock would follow. After a moment of silence, Sherlock huffed and walked after Mycroft into the deep shadows of the warehouse.

Far away from the Holmes brothers, John Watson was returning to 221B Baker Street with a couple of shopping bags in his hands. It was his first shopping trip out in nearly two weeks. He'd been going through groceries much slower since Sherlock had...

It meant that he had lost some weight, something Mrs. Hudson had begun commenting on frequently. It was no surprise, therefore, for John to find a small plate of cookies waiting on the kitchen table with a note from Mrs. Hudson encouraging him to eat them all.

Once the shopping was put away, John paused at the kitchen table to stare down at the tiny plate of cookies. Mrs. Hudson's note, leaning against the edge of the plate, was so typically Mrs. Hudson that John had to laugh softly. Not the housekeeper, no; more like a den mother.

John hesitated a moment, debating pouring himself a glass of scotch. He'd been drinking a bit more than usual ever since... but he decided that scotch and cookies would probably be a poor combination and turned toward the kettle instead.

Several minutes later, John carried the tiny plate of cookies and a fresh cup of tea into the sitting room. He dropped into his armchair and his eyes slid inexorably toward Sherlock's empty black leather chair. It had been five months since... but John hadn't been able to get rid of the chair. He hadn't been able to force himself to change anything about 221B, couldn't even bring himself to move out. Sometimes, he almost thought he could feel Sherlock through the bond mark on his neck. So, while it was horribly painful to walk through the flat that still howled 'Sherlock Holmes' from every wall and pile of accumulated riffraff, it would have been worse to have been somewhere else and not been able to lie to himself, from time to time, that Sherlock was still alive out there somewhere and would be coming home to him soon.

John rubbed at the bond scar absently before lifting a cookie from the plate. Maybe he could soothe his emotional pain in sugar and chocolate for a few minutes. Who would judge him for eating the entire plateful? Besides, the cookies were absolutely wonderful. They balanced perfectly with the hot tea and John was soon looking mournfully at the plate that held nothing but a few scarce crumbs.

When the first small pain shot through him, John thought it was indigestion from too many cookies. The next wave of pain, though, reminded John too sharply of being wounded in Afghanistan. It reminded him of death. He curled tightly, his cup of tea toppling to the floor as John made a strangled noise of agony before joining the cup on the rug.

Hundreds of miles away, in a secure hotel room, Sherlock Holmes writhed against a sudden, shockingly deep stab of pain and he gave voice to a scream as his bond with John Watson began to dissolve.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Then portion of the chapter, Sherlock is being tortured in Serbia. It is not explicit but it is fairly graphic. Consider this your trigger warning.

**  
Now**

John tried to sublimate his anger in action, walking briskly away from Baker Street. His pulse was still pounding in his temples and he felt too hot. He tore his jacket off, folding it over one arm. The cool November air felt wonderful against his skin.

As always, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes had made decisions without consulting the poor idiot John Watson. They should have made any decision about their Mate bond together, but no. After the initial choice to be bonded, Sherlock had chosen on his own. He had robbed John of his agency and his right, as the second half of a Mated pair, to make decisions regarding his life with the other man.

John could understand that Sherlock had believed he was doing the 'right thing' when he'd made those choices, but he couldn't seem to let go of his fury. He couldn't help feeling that Sherlock had not deemed him important enough to consult with and it... hurt. God, it hurt. It was almost like his bond was dissolving all over again, stabbing him through his chest and gut.

John hitched a breath, determined not to cry over Sherlock again, and certainly not in public. He'd shed his share of tears over the last two years when he'd believed Sherlock was gone forever. He would not shed another tear over the man who had now returned from the dead.

John's mobile chimed with an incoming text while he was on the train back to his flat. He dug it out of his coat pocket and flipped it on.

_Dropping by your flat with those DVDs you wanted to borrow. Thought I deserved a half day at work. Let me know if you need to talk. - Mary x_

John hesitated before sending a reply. He didn't really want company at the moment. He still felt jittery and overheated after the explosive rage he'd given life to at Sherlock's flat. It wasn't until he noticed a pair of men, across the car from him, giving him assessing, interested looks that John realized that his flush and agitation weren't lingering from his fight with Sherlock; he was in the first stages of his Heat.

 _'Shit,'_ John thought, draping his coat over his lap in a vain attempt to disguise the pheromones beginning to rise from his skin. _'Could this timing be any worse?'_

He juggled his phone from hand to hand nervously before realizing that, actually, the timing was _perfect._

He turned his screen on, thumbing a reply to Mary quickly.

_Stay there. I'll be there soon. -JW_

The ride, which normally only took ten minutes, felt as if it were taking hours this time and John's fidgets grew more and more pronounced the longer he sat on the train car. The two Alpha males across the way were practically devouring him with their eyes, when they weren't sending warning glares at each other. John exited as soon as he could, rushing up and out of the Underground into the cooler air of the street.

The door to his flat was unlocked when he got there and he shut it behind him with relief, throwing the latch behind him and securing the flat against any invaders. John was beginning to be aware of a gathering dampness in his pants and the telltale signs of an imminent erection. His flat smelled comfortingly of familiarity, safety, and... popcorn?

"Is that you, John?" Mary called from the kitchen. "I've made popcorn and I've got the movies set out on the couch if you want to choose one. Unless you want to talk before we watch a movie?"

Mary stepped into the entryway, a bowl of popcorn in her hands and a welcoming smile on her face. The smile turned puzzled as she took in John's flushed face and fast breathing. She opened her mouth to speak but froze as she inhaled.

"Oh," she breathed, setting the bowl of popcorn to the side on a small table in the entryway. "So that's why you came rushing back. I thought you'd, uh... be at Sherlock's for awhile."

John didn't want to talk about Sherlock. He didn't want to think about Sherlock. He just wanted to let his Heat ride him and erase all his higher level thoughts. He tossed his coat onto the entryway table, dislodging the bowl of popcorn and sending it spattering across the entryway. Mary's eyes went wide as John stepped forward, sliding a hand decisively behind her head and drawing her mouth to his in a hungry kiss.

Mary responded willingly, pressing into the kiss and sliding her hands inside the back of John's jumper. Her fingers splayed over his back on top of his vest, gripping him hard; her nails dug into him slightly. John moaned into her mouth, and he felt a smile curve her lips.

She broke the kiss after a second, staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes. "I love that you chose to come back to me for your Heat."

"Why wouldn't I?" John asked, breathing hard through his nose. He was trying to make her scent smell as good as Sherlock had smelled back at 221B. She smelled good, of course; she was an Alpha and he was an Omega entering Heat. There was no way she _wouldn't_ smell good to him. But if he were to be completely honest with himself, John had to admit that he didn't _crave_ her scent the same way he had craved Sherlock's.

But he wasn't going to think about Sherlock.

"He was your first," Mary said, sliding her hands down to cup his arse through his trousers. "I mean, with your Heat coming on, you could've chosen to stay with him."

"But _you're_ my fiancée," John said. He paused for a moment, clearing his throat and working up his courage. "And I think we should bond."

Mary jerked her head back, eyes going wide as she looked at him. "Bond?"

"We're going to be married; this is a logical step," John said, mirroring her earlier movement and sliding his hands behind her to cup, and squeeze, her arse. "Don't you agree?"

"Are you sure this isn't motivated by Sherlock being back?" Mary asked, her eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion.

"Of course not," John said, bringing his hands up to stroke her back soothingly. "This is about us, Mary. And I'm telling you, I think we should bond."

Mary stared at him for several long, silent seconds, holding him loosely against her body as she considered his words. Finally, though, a slow smile spread across her face and she gave his arse another, harder, squeeze.

"All right. Let's go bond."

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

Torture would have been easier to take if the bond to John had been intact, Sherlock had to admit. The ability to reach out to John's emotions, even if those emotions were nothing but sorrow, would have been comforting.

The physical pain his body was enduring was distracting and horrific, but he had his mind palace and memories of John to distract his mind. True, his body still responded every time they hurt him; sometimes, even when he was buried in his memories of life in 221B with John, Sherlock could hear his own torn, pulsing screams of pain echoing in the cold, dark torture chamber. It was only when the Serbian torturers did something truly hideous to his body that Sherlock was pulled from his mind palace and back into reality.

He had not realized, for example, that the bottoms of his feet were so intensely sensitive. The pain of a lighter held under the arch of his foot was enough to bring him sharply back to reality, even when he was in his best mind palace room: the room that held the memories of his one Heat with John.

"Are you ready to tell us anything yet, Mr. Holmes?" the torturer would ask, and Sherlock would tell him plenty of things: how he could tell time of day it was by how quickly condensation was dripping from the exposed pipes, how he knew his current torturer was in debt up to his eyeballs based on the state of his cuticles, how Sherlock would probably stop responding to torture within in the next two days from sheer starvation if he didn't get something to eat... but none of the torturers ever seemed impressed by the information Sherlock so willingly gave them.

"I would suggest," Sherlock said at one point, his voice rough from his recent screams, each word a struggle as he tried to catch his breath, "that you should probably... take me down from this hanging position. My shoulders are... are going to atrophy if you continue to... leave me chained like this. That is, of course, assuming that... the eventual atrophy of my shoulders is not your goal."

Across the room, his current torturer glanced up, his face vaguely amused under his heavy beard. He was cleaning the blade of the knife he had been using to fillet small strips of skin from Sherlock's lower back, just above his buttocks. The knife was absolutely covered in gore, as was the torturer's hand, wrist, and hairy forearm. Sherlock was struggling to take even breaths but the pain was truly unbelievable. And trying to talk to his torturer rather than retreating into the safety of his mind palace was making Sherlock twitch with the desire to get away.

"Actually, we were planning to move you to new accommodations today, Mr. Holmes. You will be there for the next week," the man replied, shaking a splatter of Sherlock's blood off of his arm and onto the rough cement floor. "You will like it, I think. A dirt floor, no source of light, and a bucket to piss in."

"Luxurious," Sherlock managed, the word slightly mangled by his swollen bottom lip. It was truly amazing the kind of damage a simple human fist could do.

"There will even be stale crusts of bread, if you can find them before the rats do," the torturer said, laughing. "But you could have something much nicer if you would simply tell us what we want to know."

"I'm afraid I have to decline that... generous offer. I wouldn't want to... to inconvenience anyone. And the dirt floored room sounds... much easier to procure," Sherlock panted. He found he was having trouble drawing a deep enough breath to get each sentence out evenly, despite the fact that he had caught his breath after his most recent round of torture. He had been suspecting he had a cracked rib and was leaning much more towards a 'yes' as he struggled now to get a good breath around the pain in his side. Or was it the pain in his lower back causing the problem? So hard to know which one to blame when they were both so convincingly persistent with their complaints.

His torturer shook his head, turning back to the knife he was polishing. Sherlock let his own head drop forward, his unkempt hair straggling around his face - too long, but that was what happened when you were hunting and then being hunted. And, of course, eventually being caught and imprisoned for months of absolutely rousing torture. Sherlock's entire body was hanging painfully from his over-strained shoulders. The manacles around his wrists, which had cut into the thin skin over his bones, but his shoulders wouldn't give up their incessant aching. Experimentally, Sherlock tried to put his feet flat, knowing that standing upright for even a minute or two would help his strained shoulders immensely, but the most recent burns on the pads of each toe were still shockingly painful to put his weight on and the older burns along the outside of his arch were suppurating. He wasn't even able to put a small amount of his weight onto his feet before he gagged on the pain and went back to hanging heavily from his burning, overstrained shoulders.

Time to get away.

Sometimes, Sherlock didn't need to retreat to his mind palace, shutting the physical world away completely. There were occasionally days when they allowed his body to mostly heal from the last round of torture, building him up for the next round as they sought endlessly to get information out of him. During those few days, when physical pain wasn't overpowering, Sherlock could escape into imagination rather than a full retreat into his mind palace. He would imagine what it would be like to be back in London with John. He would imagine being in 221B not as flatmates but as lovers, lazing together on the couch or holding hands across the table during breakfast; little moments he had seen between his parents when he was growing up that had stuck in his mind as 'this is affection.'

Sometimes he would imagine what sex with John outside of Heat would be like. Sherlock, always the type to try all conceivable variables to be sure of thorough knowledge, would let his mind wander through the many different things he'd like to try with John. He hadn't had much time for personal reading during the twenty months, two weeks, and five days away from John, but he had made an effort to learn as many ways of pleasing a male Omega as he could. He had decided he most looked forward to sucking John off. It was a delicious juxtaposition of being in control and being controlled, Sherlock thought. He held John's pleasure in his mouth but John could take control at any point by fucking into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock longed to know if John's sounds of pleasure were the same both in and out of Heat. He wanted to know what John looked like when he came and he wasn't overridden by a potent pheromone cocktail. He wanted to know as much about John's sexuality as he knew about John as a person, cataloguing each detail in careful precision and filing them away in his Dr. John Hamish Watson, retired Captain Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, room.

But at that moment, fantasy would not suffice. The pain was too intense, his injuries too raw. Sherlock could not lose himself in musings when every breath was a struggle and every inch of his body was sending frantic, snapping pain signals to his brain.

The hallways of his mind palace were as bright as they had ever been. John was waiting for him as soon as he stepped inside, no longer confined to a room or two of memories now that Sherlock needed him so frequently. John walked freely through the mind palace beside Sherlock, always smiling his faintly approving smile. It was a smile that Sherlock had only ever seen John bestowing on Sherlock himself in the real world, and it was John's default expression in Sherlock's mind palace because of it.

"I feel I'm in need of extra attention today, John," Sherlock said, reaching out to loop his arm through John's. The shorter man leaned closer, pressing against Sherlock's side comfortingly. Together, they meandered down the hallway of the mind palace, heading for a specific room.

In that room, John was splayed in Sherlock's bed, waiting for him with a sleepy, welcoming smile. It was the morning after John's Heat and Sherlock walked gratefully to the bed, falling down beside his Mate. The John of the hallway melded seamlessly with the John in the room and Sherlock lost himself in the eternity of that perfect morning.

The sun was rising, giving the room a soft, golden glow. It gleamed faintly off the salt-and-wheat of John's hair. It made John's dark blue eyes appear like fathomless deeps that Sherlock could drown all his pain in. It added fascinating shadows to John's weathered face. It gave the skin of John's body a golden sheen that Sherlock ached to lick. Sherlock devoured all of John with his eyes, cataloguing every scar on the other man's skin from the nearly life-ending one high on his chest to the smaller, incidental marks on his forearms and knuckles from middle school fights and accidents during university.

Sherlock devoured the small shadows thrown by John's hipbones, the soft curl of John's pubic hair, the utter relaxation in the slight spread of John's legs as they rested on the bed. Everything about John soothed Sherlock's soul, and he let himself fall into it until there was nothing but John Watson.

Sherlock was not aware when they took him down from the chains, his body dropping onto the floor hard enough to split open the skin over one cheekbone. He was unaware of being dragged down a hallway, the tops of his feet tearing open on the rough cement floors as his two guards manhandled him along. He did not react when they dropped him into the small, pitch black cell onto a floor of bare dirt scattered with a scant few pebbles. It would be hours before Sherlock came back to his body and realized that his captors had not noticed a point in the wall near the dirt floor where the stone was cracked and crumbling. Sherlock still had hours of John before he would begin his escape from his Serbian torturers. And, even once he came back to reality and realized that he had wasted hours in his mind palace when he could have been insuring his freedom, Sherlock would not mind. Time with John Watson was never time wasted.


	9. Chapter 9

**Now**

Three days of Heat-charged sex had left John feeling pleasantly sated and relaxed. He'd even managed to not think of Sherlock. He'd had to give in completely to the Omega hormones surging through him, but it was amazing how effective hormones could be at making you not think if you just let them have their way with you. 

John stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his eyes locked on the new bond mark on the side of his neck. The bite was smaller than Sherlock's had been - unsurprising as Mary's mouth was considerably smaller than Sherlock's - but the bite itself had been deeper. John had bled for awhile afterward, even needing to apply bandages during the brief interlude between Mary administering the bite and the next surge of hormones. Not that it had mattered; Mary was an enthusiastic lover and had bitten him several more times during sex. There were multiple smaller, less intense bites on his shoulders; thankfully, none of them required bandaging and the bleeding had been minimal. He would probably have to throw out his bedsheets and buy new ones, though; the blood had been setting into the fabric for three days. 

John sighed softly, opening the medicine cabinet to get bandages out again. The bite marks had all scabbed, but the bond bite was deep enough that John any drastic movement over the next few days would cause it to bleed again. He'd need to keep it covered until it had healed into the scar that would show everyone that he was now a bonded Omega. 

The bond alerted him to Mary's approach before she appeared in the bathroom doorway, naked and smiling lazily at him. It was strange, John realized; he couldn't get a feel for her emotional state. It had been something he had enjoyed immensely when he and Sherlock had been bonded for two days. It had been thrilling to know what his Mate had been feeling and to be able to use that information to help John know how to react in a situation. 

"Huh," he murmured in surprise, looking over at Mary and assessing her expression and body language to try and clue himself in to what she was feeling. 

"Problem?" Mary asked. 

"The bond," he said, gesturing absently at the mark on his neck. "It's different from what I expected. I mean, I was able to get impressions of emotions with Sher -" 

John broke off guiltily, pressing his lips together hard as he looked at Mary. Her expression mirrored his, her lips pressed hard and her eyes angry for a moment. Then she shrugged and her anger was replaced by indifference. "John, I'm not really surprised that you're comparing our Mate bond to what you'd known before. But I'm not Sherlock, okay? It won't be the same for us." 

"Of course not," John hastened to assure her, pressing the bandage down firmly at the edges of the wound before turning to gently slide his arms around Mary's waist, pulling the Alpha against his body. "I apologize. That was incredibly stupid of me, bringing him up." 

"Like I said, I'm not surprised. But, John, you're not going to be happy if you're always trying to compare what we have with each other to what you had with Sherlock. It'll make you miserable." Mary twined her arms around John's upper back, fingers clenching together between his shoulder blades. "You're my Mate now. Let him go." 

"Of course," John said. "I will. I am. Look, let's get some breakfast in us. Or would it be lunch? What time is it, anyway?" 

Mary raised one eyebrow, staring at John hard for a moment before allowing herself to be mollified by his teasing tone. "Let's call it brunch. That will give us the opportunity to eat anything we want." 

"I like that plan," John said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

"Come on, Mate," Mary said, pulling John toward her as she took a few slow steps backwards. "I make a fantastic omelette." 

In the entryway of John's flat, his mobile phone buzzed to life, it's battery life warning flashing after three days of neglect. On the screen, the incoming text flashed up for a moment, unseen by the Mated Alpha and Omega as they argued in the other room over who would be doing the cooking. 

_Not an underground network of terrorists. An Underground network. The game is on, John. Need you at 221B at earliest convenience. -SH_

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

In the six months since John's bond with Sherlock had finally dissolved, John had found himself increasingly fond of his handgun. 

It had started off innocently enough: John had been packing his few possessions to move out of 221B, unable to find any comfort from the familiar surroundings now that every time he looked at things, all he could think was, 'He's not coming back. He's never coming back.' 

John had been emptying drawers, one after another, with mechanical blankness, tossing their contents into cardboard boxes with no real rhyme or reason because it wasn't like he needed to be expeditious in his packing and moving efforts. He had time off from work for his bereavement (whispers in the hallways when he walked by, concerned looks that he hadn't shaved and possibly hadn't washed in several days and even the patients were beginning to talk). In one drawer, he had found his handgun, waiting patiently. He had started to toss it into a box with a bunch of paperbacks, but he'd hesitated, holding it in his hand. For a moment, he turned it towards himself, staring into the black eternity of the muzzle and remembering the way Sherlock's head had lolled when the medics loaded him on the stretcher. But eventually, he'd tucked it into the waistband of his trousers at his lower back and had finished his packing. 

He had already secured a flat well away from 221B ('Sherlock will never see this place,' John had thought when he signed the papers that made that his new address, and he had nearly come apart at the thought right there in the front office of the rental place). It was small and boring but it was a place to sleep at night and a place to store his few possessions until John could heal enough from the loss of his entire life to begin having an interest in things again. It reminded him somewhat of his bedsit where he'd been existing before meeting Sherlock. Wasn't it nice how things had come full circle? 

His first Heat after Sherlock's death had been awful. He'd locked himself in his newly rented flat alone, thinking of Sherlock the entire time. He'd spent almost as much time trying not to cry as he spent wanking and the whole experience left John feeling like his life was some enormous joke of which he wasn't being told the punchline. The gun stayed on the bedside table the entire time John was suffering through his Heat, watching over him. 

John didn't think he was suicidal exactly. It was more like his mourning was taking longer than expected and he needed a comfort object to remind him that he had options beyond existing in an eternal in-between state. One option lurked in the black eye of the gun. The other lay out on the streets of London. 

John knew it was time to make his choice when he realized he'd been away from work for nearly a month, carrying his gun around the flat with him constantly, and had been rubbing at the spot where his bond mark had been with such regularity that it had begun getting irritated and inflamed. It had been a year since Sherlock fell from the top of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and John had to stop living in an in-between state of quiet, ceaseless misery. 

John had put his gun back in a drawer, taken a shower, and gotten a takeaway from his favorite Chinese restaurant, despite it being at least fifteen minutes away from his new flat. He'd called work to let them know he'd be in the next day and then slept deeply. 

He'd dreamed of Sherlock, but the dreams had been pleasant ones: they'd been pounding through the dark streets of London, chasing after someone who deserved to be caught by them. John had awakened missing Sherlock, but not consumed with grief. He had been able to make it to the clinic ten minutes early. 

Dr. Wilkins, the man who ran the clinic, greeted John cautiously. "You don't have to dive back in, you know," he offered. "You could take a half day." 

"I need to dive back in," John said, refusing to take an easy out. He'd been giving himself too many easy outs lately. "I'll be fine, Dr. Wilkins. Thanks." 

"All right," Dr. Wilkins agreed, sounding like he wasn't sure if he were making a mistake or not. "You'll be in three today. Oh, Belinda suffered an unexpected death in the family and had to move back home to help with arrangements and settling the estate. We've hired a new nurse in her place. Come along and I'll introduce you before you start seeing patients." 

John followed Dr. Wilkins through the hallways of the clinic, resisting the urge to look down at the ground. He wasn't giving himself an easy out anymore. He met the eyes of his coworkers and gave them all tight smiles. They all responded but he could hear the whispers as soon as they thought he was out of earshot. That was fine. John could handle whispers. He couldn't handle mourning anymore, not without completely losing himself. 

"Ah, Mary, there you are!" Dr. Wilkins' jovial shout pulled John back into present moment. He looked to where Dr. Wilkins was gesturing and took in the blonde woman turning from a pile of patient charts on a desk. 

"Good morning, Dr. Wilkins. Who's this?" 

"This is Dr. John Watson. He's been off work for the last month for a personal bereavement but he's jumping back into the thick of things now. You'll be working with him primarily." Dr. Wilkins turned to John, nodding towards Mary. "Mary Morstan. She's a first rate nurse and the fastest note-taker I've ever seen." 

"Ah." John stepped forward with a quick smile, holding his hand out. Mary shook it and John caught the faintest hint of Alpha scent wafting from her clothes. Although it was by no means unusual to meet another Alpha or Omega, especially in a city as large as London, John had somewhat gotten used to the idea that their genders were a dying anomaly. Didn't the papers say the same thing? Alpha and Omega children were a smaller percentage of all live births every year, even to parents who both carried the Alpha/Omega genes. It had been at least eighteen months since John had met another Alpha besides Sherlock, and for a moment he indulged himself in breathing in the rich pheromone markers of Alpha, enjoying the echoed similarities to Sherlock's own Alpha scent. 

"An Omega," Mary said, surprised. She gripped John's hand a tiny bit too tightly for a normal handshake, but John didn't fault her. 

"Oh, dear, that's right," Dr. Wilkins said, looking flustered. "Perhaps I should assign a different nurse, Dr. Watson?" 

"No. No, this will be fine," John said, taking his hand back from Mary. He noticed that she looked faintly upset. Was she upset at herself for reacting so strongly to him? He didn't blame her; Omegas were rarer than Alphas and it was likely that it had been years since Mary had seen one. 

"If you're sure...?" Dr. Wilkins asked, glancing between John and Mary. 

"I am," John said. "It will be fine. Won't it, Sister Morstan?" 

"Yes, Doctor," she said, giving him a slow smile that John responded to willingly. She was rather pretty, he had to admit. He immediately felt a stab of pain at the thought but he quashed it; he was not betraying anything. His Mate was dead. He was an unbonded Omega and it was fine if he admired a pretty lady. 

"Well, then, I'll leave you to it. Good to have you back, Dr. Watson," Dr. Wilkins said. "Good morning, Mary." 

John nodded at the pile of charts next to Mary as Dr. Wilkins padded his way back down the hall. "Need any help getting those put up?" 

"Thank you, but I'll manage. Why don't you look around three and make sure I haven't forgotten to restock anything. We've five more minutes until patients will be hammering the door down." Mary gave him another slow, shy smile, her eyes appreciative as she looked him over. She wasn't being terribly subtle, John thought. It was nice, being reminded that he could attract attention from someone. It was a balm on so many recent emotional wounds. 

"Thank you for the reminder," John said, giving Mary a quick nod. "Right. Probably going to be a busy day; it usually is. We'll be seeing a lot of each other." He turned to head back to exam room three, letting himself fall back into clinic routine. 

"I'm looking forward to it," Mary said softly, and John didn't fight the faint, flattered smile that tugged at his lips. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Now**

John had enjoyed his lazy, teasing brunch with Mary. They had cuddled together on the couch watching one of the DVDs she'd brought over several days before. They had been halfway through a movie that he heard his mobile giving a series of warning beeps as it powered down, its battery depleted. He'd plugged it in to charge before going back to his Mate and had not thought about it again for several hours.

Mary had kept him happily occupied with the movies, a shared shower, and several hours of dozing cuddles on the stripped mattress (John had been right; the sheets were unsalvageable and Mary had promised to pick up new ones later since it had been her enthusiasm that had ruined the last set). John didn't remember to check his mobile until early evening. He and Mary had been getting dressed to head out for dinner when John had powered the mobile back on and received Sherlock's text.

John had frozen, staring down at the words for a long moment. His usual reaction would have been to rush immediately from the flat to Sherlock's side. The message had been received at nearly 10am. It was almost 5pm and there had been no more messages. Did that mean that Sherlock was still waiting on John? Or had the idiot genius gone off on his own and gotten himself killed? John hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Should he respond?

Finally, he tapped out a quick reply, hitting Send before he could think better of it.

_Still need me? -JW_

The reply came within minutes.

_Always. -SH_

"Damnit," John whispered, staring at the single word. "Damnit, damnit, _damnit!_ "

He turned off the screen without replying, opening the bedside table to stuff his gun into the back waistband of his trousers and pulling his jumper over it. He was calling Mary's name as he exited the bedroom, his heart in his throat.

"What is it? I heard you swearing in the bedroom. What's happened, John?" Mary asked, meeting him in the hall outside the bedroom.

"It's Sherlock. He's got a case and wants me to come along." John lifted his phone and jiggled it slightly. He was shifting from foot to foot, unable to stand still. Adrenaline was rushing through him in waves.

Mary stared at John, her face blank and John felt something in his stomach sinking. "I can tell him no -"

"It's all right," Mary said, reaching out to catch his empty, hand. "You and Sherlock were friends and colleagues long before you were Mates. I know you enjoyed the excitement of catching bad guys; I've read your blog, you know."

"Oh, God," John groaned, looking away from her. "That thing."

"Yes, and it was fascinating. John, I won't take your friend from you. I won't take the adventure away from you... as long as you remember you're my Omega now."

John frowned slightly. He didn't like being called anyone's Omega; it made him feel like property.

Mary correctly interpreted his look and corrected herself. "What I mean is, you're Mated to me. I don't want you getting hurt running off on mad adventures with your ex. So be careful."

"I will," John said, leaning out to press a quick kiss to her cheek. "If you're sure you don't care...?"

"Go on, have fun. I can order a takeaway."

John brushed past Mary, scooping his discarded coat off the front entryway floor before rushing out the door, phone in his hand as he tapped out a message to Sherlock.

_I'm on my way. Ten minutes. -JW_

John made it to 221B Baker Street in just under ten minutes and it didn't even occur to him to ring the bell. He was upstairs without a thought, walking into the familiar flat to the comforting sounds of a violin piece; Paginini, he remembered Sherlock saying once. Sherlock was standing at the front window that looked out over Baker Street, his dressing gown open and billowing as he swayed faintly to the music. As John thundered up the stairs and into the flat, Sherlock turned slowly from the window, his face impassive.

"Sorry. My mobile had died. I didn't get your message until just a bit ago," John said in greeting, panting from his jog up the stairs. Sherlock looked John over before turning once more to the window, giving John his back.

"You look as though you've been busy." His tone was cool and John felt chastised, although he wasn't exactly sure why.

"Busy?" he repeated, still standing just inside the doorway. Now that he was there, he felt strangely unwelcome. The flat had been his home for 2 and 1/2 years, but John suddenly felt like an invader.

"Having a sex holiday with Mary, if I had to guess." The violin underscored his words, the notes turning plaintive.

"Ah... yeah. We've been... busy," John allowed, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets uncomfortably. There was a pause, only the voice of the violin breaking the silence. John cleared his throat, taking a single step further into the flat. "You said there was a case you needed my help on?"

"In a moment," Sherlock said, dropping both violin and bow into his armchair and striding across the room to stand before John. "I wanted... I felt we should talk. I did a poor job explaining to you before about why our bond had to be dissolved."

"No," John said, holding a hand up between them. "No. Sherlock, we aren't doing this. It's... it's in the past. It doesn't matter now, right?"

"No, John, it _does_ matter. It is, quite literally, the most important thing in the world right now," Sherlock said, his voice intense. He stepped closer, invading John's space. The warmth of his body pressed against John's and his mercurial eyes were forceful as they searched John's face. "You have to know that I gave in to Mycroft's urging only after considerable argument and thought. I could no longer imagine my life without it including being bonded to you; the very idea was anathema. I gave in only because Mycroft pointed out the truth to me: I could protect you by hurting you in the short term or I could give up my mission, return home, and spend a few happy months with you before we were overwhelmed by all the evil of Moriarty's network. They were actively hunting me by then, the news of my actions around the globe having reached their ears."

Sherlock's hands came up, touching John's shoulders hesitantly. When John didn't immediately shrug them away, Sherlock let them rest more firmly, squeezing John's shoulders lightly through his jacket. "I chose to hurt us both by dissolving our bond knowing that once I returned home to you - and I _always_ intended to come back to you, John - we would be able to rebond. It was temporary. I do not regret the action, although I do regret the necessity of it."

Sherlock's hands drifted slowly upward, his long fingers drifting over John's shoulders and the high neck of his jumper to brush along the skin of his jaw. The touch sent a thrill through John's body. How many times in the last two years had he imagined Sherlock's skin touching his? And now, here he was with the smoothness of Sherlock's fingers gliding along his jaw in slow, feather-light strokes.

"I have kept track of your Heats throughout the last two years. You should be coming up on your next one within a few days. I want us to spend it together. I want to renew our bond, if you can forgive me for the necessity of my actions over the last two years." Sherlock leaned down slowly, giving John ample time to turn away, obviously unsure of how welcome his kiss would be. When Sherlock's lips met John's, it was like something in John came undone. Two years of misery melted away at the warmth of Sherlock's lips, the longed-for taste of Sherlock's mouth, and the relief of Sherlock alive and with him once more.

John realized he had slid his own hands underneath Sherlock's dressing gown, gripping the button-up shirt in desperate handfuls. As hungrily as Sherlock was kissing John, John was kissing back with just as much intensity, standing on his toes to give himself easier access to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock opened his mouth slightly and John took the invitation, his tongue seeking Sherlock's unerringly. The groan that Sherlock gave made John shudder with sudden wanting. Sherlock must have been right in his calculations: John only ever felt this out of control during his Heat.

Heat. Oh, God.

John jerked away, breathing hard as he stared wide-eyed at Sherlock. "Oh, Jesus," he whispered.

His Heat. Mary. Mated.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his voice unsteady from the kisses. His chest was heaving, his deep breaths straining the buttons of his shirt. "What is it? What have I done wrong?"

"No," John said, falling back weakly against the wall. "Not you. Not you."

"John, please," Sherlock said, his voice desperate. "Please, do not tell me that you can't forgive me for doing what was necessary to keep us both alive. I did what I did to protect our future together, something we could not possibly have had if Moriarty's network were left intact."

"You were right. My Heat arrived three days ago. I spent it with Mary."

The expression on Sherlock's face struck like a knife through John's chest. Sherlock stood perfectly still, his arms hanging at his sides as he stared at John.

After a long silence, Sherlock spoke, his voice strangled. "Right. Yes. Of course."

"It's been _two years_ ," John said, unable to avoid trying to defend himself.

"I know," Sherlock said.

"We can't... do this, Sherlock. We can't go back to what we were. I'm with Mary now."

"John, I meant what I said when I told you I couldn't imagine not being Mated to you. I never knew it was something that I wanted until it had happened. I've spent my entire life unaware of some intrinsic part of myself and it took _you_ to show me my error. Please, do not tell me that I have no way of recovering that part of myself when I gave it up to protect us both. It would be cruel, unspeakably cruel, to have shown me a glimpse of what I could have and then take it away forever."

"I'm Mated," John whispered. He was barely able to speak the words around the pain in his chest. "Three days ago. With Mary."

Sherlock reached out a trembling hand, taking hold of the high neck of John's jumper. He tugged it down just enough to expose the bandage over the fresh bond bite on John's neck before releasing it and letting his arm drop to his side. John watched something inside of Sherlock shatter, the interior damage showing on his face as his expression twisted, his eyes wide and staring at nothing. Without a word, the taller man turned and walked into his bedroom, shutting the door gently behind him.

John remained leaning against the wall. Part of him wanted to rage at the unfairness of it all, kicking over all the furniture in the flat and destroying everything in his path as he vented his disappointment and fury. Part of him wanted to curl up into a weeping mess on the floor, mourning everything that had been and could have been again if John had not been so angry at Sherlock three days before when he left this flat in the beginning stages of his Heat. But the largest part of him felt overwhelmed with the inability to do anything but lean against the wall and struggle to take breaths.

After many long, silent minutes, John heaved himself off the wall with effort. He would go. He could walk around the dark streets of London for a few hours. He didn't feel capable of facing Mary again - Jesus, he had been _kissing_ Sherlock when he was engaged and Mated to Mary. He was the lowest creature in the world.

Before John could even turn to leave the flat, though, Sherlock's bedroom door burst open and Sherlock strode across the room. He had divested himself of his dressing gown and put his suit jacket on. The pain of before was no longer evident on Sherlock's face, his expression as cool and empty as John had ever seen it. Sherlock walked to the couch, lifting his open laptop and bringing it through the flat to deposit it at the dining table.

"I have a video I want you to see. If you're going to understand the case, you'll need to have seen this," Sherlock said, his deep voice smooth and untroubled. John hesitated, stricken more by Sherlock's seeming indifference than he'd been by the deep well of pain Sherlock had allowed to sweep across his face at John's confession earlier. When he realized John was not beside him, Sherlock looked over, pressing his lips in consternation. "Are you coming, John?"

"Right." John cleared his throat, pushing away from the wall and walking over to stand next to Sherlock before the laptop. John focused on the video and Sherlock's explanation with half his mind, unable to believe the change from stricken ex-lover to businesslike consulting detective. But then again, it was what Sherlock had always done: focus on the Work to the exclusion of all else. Was it such a surprise that it would be his panacea to emotional pain?

"Yeah, that's... odd," John agreed as the video ended. "There's nowhere he could have gotten off?"

"Not according to the maps. That's the brilliance of it. Look - seven carriages leave Westminster..." Sherlock paused, waiting for the footage to catch up to his explanation. "But only six carriages arrive at St. James' Park."

"But that's... I... it-it's impossible." John said, brow furrowing.

"Moran didn't disappear," Sherlock explained. "The entire Tube compartment did. The driver must have diverted the train, and then detached the last carriage."

"Detached it where?" John demanded, wondering if Sherlock was more affected than he was letting on. He was suggesting the impossible. "You said there was nothing between those stations."

"Not on the maps," Sherlock agreed. "But once you eliminate all the other factors, the only thing remaining must be the truth." He pointed at the screen, forcing John's attention back to it. "The carriage vanished, so it must be somewhere." Sherlock stood to pace, thinking out loud. "It vanishes between St James' Park and Westminster, Lord Moran vanishes, you're kidnapped and nearly burned to death at a fireworks par-"

John looked up as the steady line of patter cut off abruptly. Was Sherlock responding to the emotional aspect of John nearly dying? But no, the look on Sherlock's face was inquisitive, not hurt.

"What's the date, John. Today's date?"

"Hmm? November the... my God." John rose from the table slowly, realization sweeping over him.

Sherlock's incomparable mind raced forward and John listened, rapt, as Sherlock explained the plot. Within moments, Sherlock was nudging John to one side with his hip as he commandeered the laptop and messaged with Howard Shilcott, a 'train enthusiast,' as Sherlock called him. John's head had not stopped spinning by the time they had a Skype window open with Shilcott and armfuls of old maps and papers spread across the kitchen table. It was all so completely familiar to John that he had fallen into his old pattern, obeying Sherlock's orders and letting the trauma of their earlier conversation fall to the side. This was what they did, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson; they chased the leads and solved the case to the exclusion of all else.

"Hang on, hang on." John glanced up at Shilcott's words, putting his finger on his place in the book he'd been scanning. "Sumatra Road. You mentioned Sumatra Road, Mr. Holmes. There _is_ something. I _knew_ it rang a bell. Where is it..." He vanished off the screen for a moment before popping back in, looking triumphant. "There _was_ a station down there!"

"Well, why isn't it on the maps?" John asked, annoyed at the stupid inconvenience of it.

"Cause it was closed before it ever opened," Shilcott explained.

"What?"

Shilcott's face vanished again, replaced with the page of a book, a map spread across it. "They built the platforms, even the staircases, but it all got tied up in legal disputes so they never built a station on the surface."

John could almost feel Sherlock's mind whirling as the taller man slowly stood upright, his gaze unfocused. "It's right underneath the Palace of Westminster."

"So what's down there?" John asked, still trying to catch up. "A bomb?" But Sherlock was already striding away, his brilliant mind ten steps ahead of John's as always. And John followed after him without hesitation, knowing in the deepest part of his heart where he belonged.

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

Sherlock had been in the forests of Serbia for almost 24 hours. His progress was slower than he had thought it would be. He had given himself a few days to begin healing from his last round of torture before escaping, but it would have taken much more time and much more food than he was being granted in his pitch dark prison cell to fully heal from the considerable damage they had inflicted upon him.

As it was, he could not be completely sure that he was traveling away from his captors rather than wandering in circles. He needed sleep more than anything, his body running on fumes as it tried to keep going with grievous wounds and near starvation weighing it down.

Thankfully, Sherlock stumbled across a patch of old, tangled undergrowth several minutes later. There were enough dead leaves still clinging to the vines that they would not only hide him from searching eyes but also offer some small amount of shelter from the cold of the night. It was the best option he had for rest and Sherlock crawled into the small shelter, ignoring the scrapes of brambles on his bare arms and back. The pains were small; he had endured much worse.

He fell asleep within minutes of curling tightly in to preserve body heat. The dream was waiting for him as soon as his conscious mind surrendered.

He was in the sitting room of 221B, standing beside the coffee table and staring at the couch. John lay stretched along it, smiling invitingly at Sherlock. He lifted one hand, holding it palm up in invitation.

Sherlock moved easily, his body uninjured in this dream. There were no burns on his feet as he paced around the coffee table to sit on the edge on the couch next to John's legs. Where his lower back pressed against John's thighs, there were no raw wounds to sting at the pressure of John's trousers. John reached for Sherlock, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's wrist to guide Sherlock's hand to hover over his chest and Sherlock reveled in the feeling of warm fingers on his wrist rather than cold steel.

"I want you to touch me," John murmured, and his eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile. "Right here." And John laid Sherlock's hand on his chest.

Sherlock splayed his fingers over the softness of John's jumper, feeling an answering smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. "You have on entirely too many layers for me to effectively touch _you_ ," he pointed out.

"Then undress me. I don't mind," John said, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur.

Sherlock did not need a second invitation. He turned and slid both hands under the hem of the jumper, palms and fingertips sliding up the smoothness of John's vest as the tops of his wrists rucked the jumper up to John's armpits. Once it was up that high, Sherlock twisted his hands around, catching hold of the rumpled material with his hands. John lifted his upper body off the couch, raising his arms over his head so Sherlock could pull the jumper off. It disappeared from the dream as soon as Sherlock released it and Sherlock did not question it.

The vest was next and Sherlock enjoyed working it out of John's trousers, each gentle tug of the material making John's soft, secret smile grow slightly wider. Once it was fully untucked, Sherlock slid his hands under the edge to feel John's stomach muscles jump at the contact. He slid it slowly up John's chest, pausing to circle his index fingertips around John's nipples, delighting in the way they tightened and puckered under his touch.

The vest vanished as soon as Sherlock had pulled it fully over John's head and Sherlock turned his attention to John's trousers.

"Hold on," John said, sitting up slightly. "You're at an unfair advantage." He gestured to Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock nodded.

"I can take it off," he offered, reaching to undo the buttons but John's hands landed on Sherlock's, stilling them.

"Let me."

The soft, subtle movement of John's hands on the buttons was surprisingly arousing. The tug of the fabric as John slipped each button free of its hole had Sherlock dropping his head back, eyes sliding shut as he luxuriated in the softness of John's touch. When John got to the button at the edge of Sherlock's trousers, Sherlock arched his back slightly and John slid his fingers just barely into the top of the trousers to gently work the tucked shirt free. The butterfly-soft pressure of John's fingertips and the subtle slide of the material against his lower abdomen made Sherlock's prick stir and he fought not to voice an appreciative moan.

John slid the shirt off Sherlock's arms and his warm, calloused hands followed the path of it, stroking over Sherlock's biceps, inner elbows, and forearms until the shirt fell from him. John twined his hands into Sherlock's.

John leaned forward and Sherlock moved to meet him, their mouths meeting hungrily. Sherlock twisted his hips to face John, crawling up onto the couch. He swung one knee over and straddled John's thighs as they fed at one another's mouths, their hands still gripped together.

John broke the kiss, his pupils blown wide with desire as he looked over Sherlock's face, his eyes sliding over the planes and hills of the familiar features hungrily. "I love you," John whispered, and in the dream the words did not frighten or confuse Sherlock. In the dream, there could only be truth.

"I love you, John," Sherlock replied, meaning it wholeheartedly. "Perhaps only you in all the world."

"I know," John said, and he released Sherlock's hands to reach for the zip on the other man's trousers.

They became frantic then, getting in one another's way as they worked to undo each other's trousers, kissing each other hungrily as they worked to remove the last bits of clothes separating them.

Naked, Sherlock leaned out over John, bracing his hands on either side of John's shoulders on the couch cushion. Their cocks were side by side, Sherlock's longer legs nestled between John's legs. The heat of John's body was orgasmic just by itself, and Sherlock released a shuddering breath as he stared down at the familiar, weathered planes of John's face.

John rubbed his hips experimentally against Sherlock's, their hard cocks sliding deliciously against one another and the curls of their pubic hair tickling. John made an appreciative noise, his mouth dropping open as lust swept over him and Sherlock responded by thrusting against John's body, picking up a rhythm as their cocks rubbed.

"God, yes," John whispered, panting as he reached up to grip Sherlock's upper arms. The muscles of his biceps flexed against John's tight hold, creating another delicious point of contact. "Jesus, Sherlock."

Sherlock's breath was coming harder as he felt the orgasm building up from the slide of skin on skin. John released one of Sherlock's arms, snaking his hand down between their bodies to wrap his fingers around Sherlock's cock, his grip tight. It was enough to tip Sherlock over the edge. He was coming, voicing guttural moans of pleasure, his body shaking as he painted his cum across John's stomach.

Sherlock woke in the tangled vines and dead leaves. His body trembled in a dry orgasm. He stifled his moans against one biceps, pressing his mouth hard into his own skin to prevent alerting anyone that might be searching near his location. When his cock finally stopped twitching, Sherlock panted through his nose, mouth still pressing into his upper arm as he fought a sudden crushing wave of misery. In that moment, he wanted 221B and John more than he wanted anything, even more than he had wanted to complete his mission. He was done now, the final piece of the puzzle complete with the overthrow of Baron Maupertuis. The only thing driving him now was the desire to be back in London, where he belonged.

But he had to get out of Serbia first. And, if he were going to get anywhere, he'd need to secure a shirt of some kind before his over-taxed body wore itself out faster trying to keep him warm.

Sherlock slid carefully from the bushes, moving so slowly that scarcely a leaf rustled. In the distance, he heard a dog bark followed by a man's voice shouting in Serbian. Sherlock spun and raced into the night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Now**

John couldn't believe he was running beside a live train rail down a dark tunnel chasing a train car that may not even exist. It was the most ridiculous thing he'd done in months, and he felt more alive than he had in two years. 

But then, as they went round a gentle bend, John saw the missing train car up ahead and murmured, his voice amazed, "Ah... look at that." 

"John." 

Sherlock's voice stopped John and he looked to the other man. A quick gesture with his torch and Sherlock directed John's gaze upwards. John added his own light to Sherlock's. Above them, a vent led into blackness, presumably leading to the surface streets. Attached to the walls of the vent at regular intervals were small explosives. 

"Demolition charges," John said softly. Sherlock had been right. It was amazing how many things Sherlock could be right about and yet be so shockingly wrong about others (but John _would not_ start thinking about that right now. If ever there was a wrong time to think about the nature of your failed romantic relationship, it was while standing in a Tube tunnel next to explosives). 

They continued down the tunnel to the train car just ahead, making their way into it and scanning the dark interior quickly, searching for the bomb that Sherlock had predicted would be there. After several minutes of checking every available hiding spot, John felt frustration building. 

"It's empty." He turned to look at Sherlock, puzzled. "There's nothing." 

But Sherlock wasn't looking at John. He was following a pair of thin cables that ran along the wall to one of the seatbacks. "Isn't there?" he asked, his voice low. 

John turned, shining his torch over to the area Sherlock was investigating as the taller man carefully lifted the seat cushion. 

"This is the bomb." 

"What?" John asked. Sherlock's words were so illogical that, for a moment, John could not process them. 

"It's not _carrying_ explosives. The whole compartment _is_ the bomb," Sherlock explained, lifting the seat cushion to show John the wired explosives beneath it. 

Panic surged through John and he began lifting seat cushions at random, each new bundle of explosives he discovered sending a new wave of adrenaline rushing through his body. A noise behind him made him turn and he stared in rising horror as Sherlock, having found a loose panel in the floor to pry up, revealed a ridiculously huge and complicated looking bomb nestled in the floor. John's breath rushed from him in a nearly silent "Oh" of horror. 

"We need bomb disposal," John said weakly. 

"There may not be time for that now," Sherlock replied. John's fight-or-flight system was absolutely howling at him but there was no enemy for John to vanquish and he couldn't abandon Sherlock. And the mad idiot would never leave a problem unsolved, so unless John could bodily carry Sherlock out of the Underground before the bomb went off, there was absolutely nothing for John to do. 

"So, what do we do?" John asked, looking, as always, to Sherlock for the solution. 

There was a pause as Sherlock stared at John. When he spoke, it was not what John had expected to hear. "I have no idea." 

"Well, _think_ of something," John said, his voice tight. 

"Why do you think _I_ know what to do?" Sherlock demanded angrily. 

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes; you're as clever as it gets!" John couldn't believe that Sherlock was playing this game with him when there were explosives literally on all sides of them. Back at the flat, he had seemed honestly repentant about past lies and games. And now here they were on a train and Sherlock was once again pretending that there were circumstances outside of his understanding and control. 

The bickering was incessant. Sherlock insisting he didn't know what to do, John insisting Sherlock had to know, both of them practically snarling at each other as adrenaline grabbed them by their heads and dragged them in tight, useless little circles. 

Until all the lights in the tube car slowly powered up and the countdown clock on the front panel switched on and the numbers began to quickly decrease. 

"Oh... my God!" John shouted, spinning away from the huge bomb in the floor. 

"Uh..." Sherlock's voice shook on the single syllable as he paced to the opposite end of the train car. 

"Why didn't you call you police?" John demanded, lashing out helplessly. "Why do you _never_ call the police?" 

"Well, it's no use _now!_ " Sherlock snapped. 

John resisted the urge to throttle Sherlock. He would be dead in two minutes anyway; no sense in John sending him on prematurely. 

"So you _can't_ switch the bomb off? You _can't_ switch the bomb off and you didn't call the police." John turned away and then spun back, glaring at Sherlock, trying to convey whole worlds of anger and betrayal in a single look. 

"Go, John," Sherlock said, desperation coloring his words as he pointed back down the tunnel. "Go now." 

"There's no _point_ now, is there, because there's not enough time to get away. And if we don't do this," and John gestured toward the bomb between them in the floor panel, the timer still ticking down towards zero, "other people will die!" 

Sherlock's eyes ticked from John's face down to the enormous bomb. For the barest moment, pain flashed across his face and John felt it stab him in his chest like a blade. It erased his anger instantly. Sherlock could not save him with some clever, complicated plan. There was no way to die without _actually_ dying this time. All the little facts Sherlock had tucked away in his head had proven useless in the end, all the data and maps and engineering knowledge he'd thrown together in his mind palace were - 

"Mind palace!" John gasped. 

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up at John, his expression blank. 

"Use your mind palace!" John urged. 

"How will that help?" Sherlock asked, his face twisting with annoyance and confusion. 

"You've salted away every fact under the sun!" John pointed out. 

"Oh, and you think I've got 'how to diffuse a bomb' tucked away in there somewhere?" Sherlock asked, throwing his hands up, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

" _Yes!_ " John shouted. 

There was a beat as Sherlock stared at nothing, his face blank. "Maybe." 

John had long gotten accustomed to Sherlock shutting himself away in his mind palace, watching the dark-haired man wander through imaginary halls and rooms as he searched for facts. Sometimes, it took hours for Sherlock to slowly page through the information he had accrued and find the bits he needed for a particular case. At that moment, though, Sherlock looked as if he were in physical pain as he stormed his mind palace, screaming through the halls and tossing through each room as he desperately searched for anything related to bombs. John was whispering encouragement, not even paying attention to what he was saying as he watched Sherlock's face screw tighter and tighter with his efforts. His hands, pressed against his temples, began to tremble and John felt his stomach drop. Sherlock was literally shaking with the effort to try to find what he needed. He wasn't going to find it. 

" _I can't!_ " Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he was panting as hard as if he had been actually running through physical halls rather than mental ones. He stared at John and the apology was written across every inch of his face. 

"Oh, my God." John turned away, unable to face the reality of what Sherlock was saying. The brilliant, mad genius had no way of diffusing the bomb before them and even if they both took off running at that very _second,_ they would never get out of the blast radius before the bomb went off. "This is it. Oh, my God." 

Behind him, Sherlock was muttering frantically to himself and John turned toward him slowly. They were going to die. They were going to die and being angry at Sherlock had suddenly lost all its appeal. John did not want to die resenting the man he loved. 

Sherlock was on his hands and knees on the floor over the bomb. He was staring up at John and his face was so open that, for a moment, John was overwhelmed with memories of the one Heat they had shared together two years before. It was the only time he had ever seen Sherlock looking that way: his shields down and his soul bared. 

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, but John was already turning his head away. The flood of memories was overwhelming him and he could barely hear Sherlock over the rush of his own pulse. 

"What?" he whispered, shaking his head to negate the memories, focusing on the Sherlock of the here and now. 

"I can't... I can't do it, John. I don't know how," Sherlock said, and there were tears filling his eyes as John stared at him. He straightened up slowly, rising to his knees. "Forgive me."

_This_ was the apology John had wanted in the flat three days before, the remorse in Sherlock's voice and face blatant and undeniable. "What?" John asked, shocked that Sherlock was actually begging him - and he _was_ begging. Sherlock's hands were coming up in a prayer position, pressed together at chest level as he stared up at John, his eyes wet and desperate. 

"Please, John, forgive me... for all the hurt that I caused you." 

And John knew that this wasn't just an apology for the bomb or their argument in the flat, but for everything. It was for the two years of hell John had endured. It was for their bond that they would never get back. It was for all the mistakes in their four years of madness and excitement, and John shuddered with the pain of it all. He twisted away, blinking back tears as he realized how much they had screwed up in the time that they'd had together, how many things they should have done differently if only they were wiser men. 

"I wanted you not to be dead," he whispered, the words barely squeezing past the tightness of tears in his throat. 

"Yeah, well, careful what you wish for," Sherlock muttered wryly. He paused and then said, "If I hadn't come back, you wouldn't be standing there and... you'd still have a future... with Mary." 

John wanted to scream his frustration at Sherlock but the pain in his throat still held his voice captive. He was barely able to whisper, "It wasn't a future with Mary that I wanted, damn you." 

Sherlock was silent, unable to respond to that. 

"I waited for you, Sherlock. For an entire year, I stayed faithful to a ghost. I waited because I knew that I would never meet someone like you again, even if I waited my entire life." John gripped one of the Tube poles next to him, squeezing it hard enough to make his hand hurt. "I was content to spend the rest of my life quietly mourning you until I realized that if I kept on like that, my life would not last much beyond your own." 

"You... you were going to kill yourself?" The shock drove all emotion from Sherlock's voice and John looked back to see Sherlock's face had gone pale. 

"It was coming to that," John confirmed. "I was probably just days away from giving up when I decided that I had to let you go. I had to move on. And that was when I met Mary and the timing was right and she was... pleasant. And supportive. And funny." 

Sherlock's face twisted and he looked away. 

"But she wasn't you, Sherlock. And if you had just come back one day sooner then I wouldn't..." John trailed off, the hand not gripping onto the Tube pole rising to touch the bandage under the high neck of his jumper. 

"Don't," Sherlock said, his voice low and trembling. "Don't tell me that you would not have bonded to Mary if I had come back one day sooner." 

"It's the _truth!_ " John shouted and the words hit Sherlock physically. His thin body shuddered, his hands coming down to the floor to brace his upper body, his head hanging over the bomb in the floor. 

"I _tried_ ," Sherlock whispered. "I tried to come back to you _two weeks ago_. I'd been held for months and tortured -" 

" _Tortured?_ " John said, and for a moment everything swam. He felt light-headed and only his grip on the pole beside him kept him from sinking to the floor of the train car. 

"I actually managed to break free and I was coming home to you when they found me. They took me back to the room they'd nearly killed me in and they beat me until Mycroft intervened." Sherlock shook his head, still staring down at the bomb beneath him. "And now you tell me that if I'd just run a little bit faster, been a tiny bit more clever and managed to evade recapture... that you would have forgiven everything and you would have accepted my offer to bond with you again?" Sherlock made a weak noise, almost a laugh but completely empty of anything resembling humor. He lifted his head and there were tracks of tears on his cheeks as he stared at John. "It truly is unspeakably cruel." 

John shuddered at the words and felt the tickle of tears on his cheeks. He swiped them away violently. 

"I can forgive you for your mistakes," Sherlock said softly, not bothering to wipe away his own tears as he stared at John, "if you can find your way to forgiving me for mine." 

John shook his head faintly, his voice a whisper. "You were the best and the wisest man I have ever known. Yes, of _course_ I forgive you." 

And John tightened his body, closed his eyes, and waited for the explosion. 

And waited. 

Until he heard a sigh. He opened his eyes, turning back to see Sherlock wiping the tracks of tears off his face, his expression resigned. 

"...what are you doing?" 

"We can go," Sherlock said, and there was only the faintest tremble in his voice now. His eyes were dry once more, the only sign of his recent pain a slight redness to them. 

And furious realization swept over John and he couldn't stop the shout. "You knew how to turn it off!" 

"There's an off switch," Sherlock said dryly. 

"What?" 

"There's _always_ an off switch," Sherlock said, rising to his feet. "Terrorists can get into all sorts of problems unless there's an off switch." 

John stepped over to bend down, staring in resigned fury at the tiny toggle switch on the side of the giant bomb. "So why did you let me go through all that?" 

"I needed to talk to you without your pride or temper getting in the way and this was the perfect opportunity for us to be honest with one another." 

" _Honest?_ " John shouted, body going ramrod straight. 

"I didn't lie altogether. I've absolutely _no_ idea how to turn any of these silly little lights off," Sherlock said, gesturing around the tube car. 

It was easier to give in to the urge to punch Sherlock than it was to resist it. And, when the police showed up a minute later, John feeling much better, Sherlock didn't say anything about the growing lump on his cheek from John's fist. 

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

John had not truly expected Mary to say 'yes' when he asked her to spend his Heat with him. They'd been dating only a month and, despite having known each other for nearly five months as coworkers, their relationship with one another was still new enough to be slightly awkward. But, when John offered, Mary agreed. 

"But um... some ground rules first, all right?" John said, reaching out to take her hand in his. They were at her flat, enjoying a quiet dinner that they had prepared together under Mary's guidance. The food had been good and she had entertained John with stories about friends of hers who were trying to find their first home despite the supposed unavailability of anything without mice or damp. 

"Ground rules? All right, let's hear them," Mary said, giving John's hand a quick squeeze. 

"We have to use condoms. I've no desire to end up the stereotypical barefoot pregnant Omega," John said, adding a joking twist to the words. Mary gave a quick laugh but nodded, agreeing. 

"Fine. What else?" 

"No bonding this cycle," John said. 

"Definitely agreed," Mary said, her eyes wide. "I'm very fond of you, John, don't get me wrong... but until we know each other better, I think things like bonding for life should go on the backburner." 

The rules set, John had only to wait for his next Heat. When he'd woken up two days later, the prickling warmth rising off of his skin had let John know that he would be calling in to work for the next few days. He did so and called Mary, asking her to do the same and to make sure she brought extra condoms in case they managed to get through the pile they had stashed in John's flat. 

The sex had been pretty much what John had expected. After all, he had spent a few Heats with Alphas before Sherlock. What he had not expected was the wash of emotion after their first coupling. He had curled in Mary's arms and cried, fighting against absolutely every single sob while she stroked his back. He didn't have to say anything and she didn't try to offer any empty words of comfort. She simply said, "I know" as he pressed his face into his pillow and missed Sherlock. 

It changed the tenor of the rest of his Heat. Mary still responded to him each time his hormone levels surged and he reached for her, but there was something in her face that made John think that their brief relationship was at its end. 

He was shocked when, at the end of the fourth day, as the hormones finally ebbed back to their pre-Heat levels and he was able to think of something other than being fucked hard, Mary stayed next to him in the bed, the fingers of one hand twined with his. 

"I uh..." John hesitated and then cleared his throat before plowing forward. "I thought you'd have left as soon as the last knot went down." 

"Why?" she asked, turning toward him. 

"After the uh... the crying jag." 

"You lost someone you loved in the most unimaginably horrible way. If you didn't cry over him from time to time, I would think there was something wrong with you." 

John stared at her with his mouth hanging open for a second before he leaned close and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. She responded willingly, squeezing his hand. 

"Thank you. Thanks for... all of this," John said, gesturing with his free hand to indicate not only the both of them but also the bedroom. 

"I don't mean to leave your side," Mary said, smiling at him. "Not even if you ordered me to." 

"Well, I won't be doing that," John said, laughing. He tugged Mary closer and she tucked her blonde head under his chin and they lay in silence until finally John dozed off, sleeping deeply and without waking in the night for the first time in over a year. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Now**

"I think you should help Sherlock with his cases on your days off from the clinic," Mary said. She'd timed her announcement for the exact moment John had taken a huge bite of bacon sandwich and he gagged slightly, his eyes going huge as he looked up at her.

She'd surprised him by knocking at his front door early that morning, wanting to hear how the 'terrorist thing' the night before had gone. John had begged off a long explanation by claiming he needed at least one cup of tea in his system before he was of any use to anyone but eventually he'd had to give her a very bare bones explanation of Sherlock figuring out that there was a bomb on an abandoned train car parked underneath the Palace of Westminster and that Sherlock had managed to find an off switch before the bomb went off.

"It sounds so exciting!" Mary had said. She'd been frying bacon at his stove. She'd brought a few breakfast supplies in a grocery bag when she'd shown up that morning. John's kitchen was in desperate need of restocking after the three days of intense Heat that week.

"To say the least," John had said. He couldn't bring himself to talk about the emotional aspect of the train car experience. Somehow, it felt too private to bring up to anyone, even his Mated fiancée.

She'd turned the conversation to workplace gossip after that and John had been able to relax in the predictable domesticity of life with Mary. Until she'd suddenly thrown the conversation back to the topic of Sherlock right when John was trying to enjoy his breakfast.

He finally managed to swallow the bite of bacon sandwich and took a quick gulp of tea to wash it down. "What makes you say that?"

"You're so much happier today," Mary said, wrapping both hands around her own cup of tea. "You've missed running around and solving cases with him, I can tell. And it's obviously done you some good, being on the edge of death."

"Oh, yeah, it was thrilling," John said dryly, setting his sandwich down.

"You can act out if you want, but I know the truth. You enjoy your mad adventures and I think you should get back to it. You obviously love me, but there's a part of you that belongs to Sherlock. I can see that, and I'm okay with that... as long as it's just the cases."

"Of course!" John said quickly.

"Then do it. Chase down the bad guys in your days off from the clinic. I have plans with Janine today anyway, so you can head over once you've finished your breakfast."

John's stomach dropped. See Sherlock today? After the confession on the train car yesterday? And what the hell would he say? "Sorry I didn't wait for you. Sorry I'm a bastard and you're a bastard. Sorry we both absolutely ruined any chance we had for happiness together?" Sounded like a fun conversation.

"Speaking of, I've got to run. We're going to do some shopping, maybe take in a film. And there's a new cafe Janine's been begging me to try so we'll probably end up there at some point. But we can have dinner together tonight, assuming you aren't knee deep in terrorist plots again. I'll text you, all right?"

"Right," John said softly. Mary dropped a kiss on his cheek and then breezed out the door with a wave, leaving John alone with his suddenly unappetizing bacon sandwich and his thoughts.

The worst part of it was that there was nowhere else John would rather be than with Sherlock. Sitting around his flat all day sounded as unappetizing as the rapidly cooling bacon sandwich, despite how awkward seeing Sherlock again was sure to be.

Decision made, John pushed away from the table and went to get dressed. He would not text Sherlock to make sure it was okay for him to go over. He would just show up and Sherlock would have to deal with him.

John was just walking up the steps to 221B when the door burst open and Sherlock nearly collided with him. He was wearing his Belstaff and a glare and he managed to grab hold of one of John's shoulders before the shorter man could tumble back down the steps.

"Ah, John. Perfect. Lestrade just texted me. There's been a strange murder just off Gloucester Place and he's asked us to come."

"Wait, no... that's near my flat," John said. He hadn't seen any police activity when he'd been leaving.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, striding away to hail a cab, expecting John to follow.

Once they arrived, John couldn't believe he'd missed the police activity earlier. It was just behind his building, flashing lights and yellow police tape everywhere. As always, Sherlock hurried in to the crime scene like a puppy at a park, ignoring the sour looks of the detectives and investigators as he swept past them and into the building. John followed, smiling faintly at the sight of Sherlock Holmes in his element.

Several storeys up, they found a bundle of activity buzzing around an open door and they stepped into a minimally trimmed flat. Sherlock's eyes were everywhere as he took in clues, building up theories with each new piece of evidence.

"That bastard," DI Greg Lestrade said in greeting, stepping up next to John, his voice fond as he looked over at Sherlock who was stepping carefully around the body in the center of the sitting room. Whoever it had been had fallen from his comfortable-looking armchair, a handgun still tangled in his fingers.

"Yeah," John agreed, not truly interested in talking about Sherlock with the silver-haired DI at the moment.

"Two years. Can you believe him? Two bloody years and not a word and then he pops in larger than bloody life -"

"Yeah," John said quickly, cutting Greg off midsentence. "Hardly surprising, though, is it? He's Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock bloody Holmes," Greg agreed with a snort, crossing his arms over his chest, but he was smiling as he said it.

"So, what's this one about?" John asked, nodding toward the body.

"He was shot early this morning," Greg explained, uncrossing his arms to gesture toward the window across from the armchair.

"We're five storeys up," John said.

"It was a sniper," Sherlock said, crouching on the floor next to the body. "And a good one, too. There was quite a bit of wind this morning."

"And he's off," Greg said, but he was still smiling. John suppressed his own smile; it was obvious that Greg had missed this.

"He knew he was under threat," Sherlock said, rising from the floor and pacing a slow circle around the body and the armchair. "He had the gun with him. Managed to get a shot off, in fact; you'll note there's a second bullet hole in the glass of the window. From the way he's fallen, he was rising from his chair when he fired but the sniper was already taking their shot." Sherlock looked over at Greg, his face tight. "This is obvious and dull, Lestrade. Why did you call me here?"

"Because of this," Greg said, gesturing to a slip of paper on the small table next to the armchair. It was folded in half and Greg slipped a pair of nitrile gloves on before lifting it and unfolding it. Handwritten on the paper were the words _'Sherlock Holmes is back. We will be proceeding with Phase Two for John Watson.'_

"God," John whispered. He had never expected to see his own name at a murder scene and it left him feeling shaken.

"He'd obviously read the message several times. It's been unfolded and refolded...eight times." Sherlock had leaned close over the bit of paper in Greg's hands, pulling out his pocket magnifier to look at it more closely. "The paper is cheap, probably torn off of a sheet of basic printing paper available at any office supply store. The handwriting is a woman's -"

"A woman's? You're so sure?" John asked, glancing away from the message to Sherlock's intense face.

"Yes, it's obvious."

"Right. Of course, it is," John muttered, the sarcasm in his voice obvious enough for Greg to glance up at him, a half-smile playing on the DI's face.

"She was angry when writing it - look at how the pen's pressed into the paper on the downstrokes of the letters. It was a threat, letting him know that he was no longer needed."

"Are you just guessing or do you know something about him?" Greg asked, refolding the piece of paper and putting it back on the side table.

"I've never seen him before in my life," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. "No, the only explanation is that he was a professional killer himself. Look at his gun; that's a military handgun, not something most civilians carried for protection. And look at the scars on his hands; he'd have to have been in a few fights to have achieved marks like that."

"Maybe he was an angry drunk," Greg said.

"No, _look_ at him!" Sherlock snapped, gesturing angrily. "There's no sign of alcohol in this entire flat. His clothes were kept clean and in good repair, not something drunks typically concern themselves with. There are no broken capillaries on his face to indicate long-term alcohol consumption. And to take a shot like that," and he pointed at the second bullet hole in the glass of the window, "when his life was under immediate threat, he would have had to have had exceptionally steady hands. A drinker would never have managed."

"So he's, what, a contract killer?"

"I'm not sure of the specifics but he obviously had some connection to John's life."

"Now, wait a moment," John began but Sherlock shook his head.

"He lives in the building just behind yours, John. He's been watching you for I don't know how long. Someone else has killed him because they were moving forward with their own plans for you." Sherlock spun away, pacing the small room. His movements were full of barely contained violence. "This was exactly why I left. I was going to keep this away from you and now I find that, by coming back, I've brought danger with me and once again put your life at risk."

"Stop. Sherlock, stop." John stepped forward, grabbing the other man by his upper arms, halting the frantic pacing. Sherlock's eyes locked onto John's face. They were too wide and bright with something John couldn't name. He heard Greg muttering something and the soft snick of the door shutting as the DI left them in the flat, giving them a moment's privacy. "This is not your fault. Do you hear me? If this man has been watching me for awhile, there is _no way_ that it can be your fault."

" _Someone_ has moved forward to 'phase two' of their plan for you, John. Something in that plan necessitated the murder of this trained killer who had been keeping tabs on your for God knows how long. When murderers begin killing murderers, it cannot possibly lead anywhere good. Look at what happened with the trained assassins Moriarty sent after us. Look at where _that_ led."

"That's not happening again," John said firmly, giving Sherlock's arms a small shake to emphasize his words. "Because you wouldn't lie to me like that again, right? You wouldn't do that to me again."

"No," Sherlock said softly. "But, John, if someone means to kill you -"

"I doubt that's the plan. I'm nobody, really."

"You are _all_ that is important," Sherlock snapped, shaking free of John's grip. "I cannot lose you to death, John. I can accept my life without you as my Mate if I can know that you are alive."

John choked on whatever he'd been about to say, his mouth hanging open.

"But I cannot - _will_ not - lose you to death," Sherlock repeated, raising one gloved hand to stroke his fingers down John's cheek. "I will solve this. I will find whoever is hunting you and I will _destroy_ them."

And Sherlock stormed from the room, leaving John standing mute and shaken while Greg stared through the open doorway at him.

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

Mary Morstan had been working with Dr. John Watson for two months when the text message chimed on her mobile one evening as she lounged in her flat, watching some brainless programme on the telly. She scooped it off the coffee table and flicked it on, keeping half her attention on the Botoxed face of the woman on the screen who was making snide remarks at her lover. When she saw the number on the mobile's screen, though, she lost all interest in the programme.

_Believe the Serbian project is coming to a head. Phase One, John Watson, is go._

Mary could feel a smile stretching over her mouth as excitement surged through her. Phase One meant she needed to convince him to date her. It would be easy, she knew. He was interested in her, despite their intelligence that suggested his ties to Sherlock Holmes would complicate any romantic entanglements. He wasn't quite ready to ask her on a date, not yet... but she was confident that she would have him to that point in the next couple of months.

She had been fascinated by John Watson from the moment she had seen the word 'Omega' in his file. She had met a few Omegas in her time, but only a few. Sex with an Omega was like nothing else, practically addictive. Tricking him into a relationship would be easy; tricking him into her bed would practically be a joke. She only had to play the cautious lover to be sure that he would be begging for her knot the next time his heat rolled around.

And, if she was lucky, Phase One would stretch out through several Heats. It would be a tragedy if she didn't get to enjoy him at least twice and secure a bond before Phase Two was implemented.

Of course, there was no guarantee that Phase Two would ever go forward. It was entirely likely that the Serbians would kill the younger Holmes before the elder could trick his way into their ranks. Not that they were unaware of what Mycroft Holmes was attempting to do; they had been paid well to make it seem as if he were fighting his way to the top rather than being positioned exactly where they wanted him to be.

She flipped the telly off, rising from the couch to walk into her bedroom, her hips swaying sensually as she moved toward her bedroom closet. There was a large Hope chest shoved into the closet, taking up nearly the entire floor space. A fake bottom slid out from the chest at her touch and she smiled lovingly at her collection of guns, stroking one finger over the gorgeous sniper rifle resting in a place of honor. If all went well, she would be using all her beauties again soon.


	13. Chapter 13

**Now**

The cab ride back to Baker Street was, thankfully, brief. Sherlock sat silent and absolutely still in the cab, his eyes narrowed as he glared out the cab window. John tried to start a conversation with him twice but Sherlock would not respond even as much as to glance at John.

As soon as the cab slowed in front of the flat, Sherlock was out of the cab and away, his Belstaff swirling dramatically. John, sighing, paid the driver and followed after Sherlock at a more moderate speed.

He mounted the stairs to 221B slowly; he'd gotten out of shape in the last two years. No longer was he used to Sherlock's breakneck pace. It would take time for him to grow accustomed to throwing himself up and down flights of stairs and dashing across the pavement of London.

When he stepped into the flat, Sherlock was tearing thumbtacks and papers off the wall above the sofa, scattering them on the floor carelessly.

"What are you doing?" John asked, shrugging out of his jacket.

"Moran's bomb is disabled and the Palace of Westminster saved. I don't need any of these any longer. All that matters now is solving your case."

"My case?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"You are the target. You are the client. It is _your_ case."

"I didn't bloody hire you!" John snapped.

"And yet I have taken your case anyway," Sherlock said, throwing the last handful of papers onto the floor. He stepped from the couch to the coffee table and then down to the floor, heading towards his laptop.

"Oo hoo!" The cheerful call from the doorway made John turn. Mrs. Hudson stepped into the flat, holding a folded piece of paper in one hand. "John, I'm glad you're here. Mary stopped by twenty minutes ago. She said she had visited a few of the venues for your wedding and wanted to drop the list with you in case you had time to look over it later."

"Ah. Right, thanks." John stepped toward the older woman, holding his hand out to receive the list.

Mrs. Hudson, her task completed, turned her attention to the flat. She raised one hand to rest lightly against her chin, her expression mournful as she took in the torn, scattered papers. "Oh, Sherlock. Such a mess you've made," she clucked, shaking her head.

For his part, Sherlock didn't even respond, lost in whatever was on his laptop screen.

"We'll get it cleaned up, Mrs. Hudson," John promised, folding the list from Mary small to tuck into his trouser pocket. "You'll forget it was ever here."

"Oh, that reminds me," Mrs. Hudson said, looking across the room to the still abstracted Sherlock. "You were playing your violin awfully late last night, Sherlock. Did you sleep at all?"

"Sleep is boring," Sherlock murmured, fingers flying over the keyboard of his laptop.

"Not at my age," Mrs. Hudson countered. "Can you try to keep the violin confined to the hours _before_ midnight?"

Sherlock didn't reply and John gave Mrs. Hudson a quick smile. "I'll try to talk to him in a bit. He's got a new case."

The annoyance melted off Mrs. Hudson's face as she looked back over at the silently glowering consulting detective. "Oh, good. He always does get so excited when something new comes in. Well, I'll leave you to it, then." She turned to make her way back downstairs and John sighed, walking over to plop into his armchair.

For several minutes, there was nothing but the soft clatter of Sherlock's fingers on the keyboard. John tapped his fingers absentmindedly on the arms of his chair and then spoke up. "Tea?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed noncommittally and John rose to put the kettle on.

While he waited for it to boil, he pulled the folded list from his pocket, opening it to glance over Mary's notes. Her handwriting was comfortingly familiar from months of patient's charts, and he skimmed the columns of plusses and minuses for each venue. He frowned at a note beneath one of the venues at the bottom of the paper. It was written in a different hand: _'Seems shady to me. Just my take.'_

There was something about the note that set him off and he stared at it as the kettle began to bubble, wracking his mind as he tried to understand what was bothering him.

"John, the kettle." Sherlock's voice came from right beside him and John jumped, startled, dropping Mary's list.

"God!" John gasped, gripping the counter to stabilize himself. When he realized what Sherlock had said, he spun to turn the kettle off again. "Sorry. I was uh..."

Sherlock crouched, lifting Mary's note from the ground and glancing at it. "Wedding venues?"

"Yeah, a note Mary dropped with Mrs. Hudson while we were at the crime scene. There was something about it... no, it's nothing." John shook his head, reaching to take the paper from Sherlock's hand. But the taller man held it out of reach.

"What? 'There was something...' what?"

"No, it's stupid. Just give the list back." John held his hand out insistently.

"You looked disturbed when I walked in. I want to know what was bothering you about this list."

"It's stupid," John said, brow furrowing. But Sherlock continued to stare at him unmoving, one eyebrow arched as he waited. "Fine! It's the note at the bottom."

Sherlock lowered the paper, looking at the spot John indicated.

"Different handwriting," John said. "Something about it..."

"No, I agree. There's something..." Sherlock paused, staring hard. His sudden, revelatory "Oh!" made John twitch in surprise.

"What?" John asked.

"The handwriting! I _know_ this handwriting. The note!" Sherlock spun and rushed back to the sitting room, Mary's list still in his hand.

"Wait!" John called, following the taller man. "What are you talking about?"

"The _note_ , John! The note at the crime scene this morning!"

"Right, the one with my name on it? What about -" But John broke off, the words dying on his tongue.

"You've realized it, too," Sherlock said triumphantly. "This handwriting at the bottom of Mary's list... the downward strokes on the y's and the capital J and S. They're the same as the ones on the note to the hired killer."

"Well, they're similar," John hedged but Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"They're the _exact_ same. Phone Mary. We need to know who wrote at the bottom of her list."

John fumbled his mobile from his pocket, Sherlock's urgency catching. Sherlock leaned close, his face next to John's as he strained to hear. The call rang through immediately and Mary's warm voice greeted him.

"Mary, Mrs. Hudson passed your list to me. I was just wondering, um... the note at the bottom isn't in your handwriting."

"Oh, no, that was Janine. She didn't like that last place but I thought it was charming."

"Oh." John said, a wave of panic slamming through him. Mary was with Janine and would be for the entire day.

"Is that all you needed?" Mary asked. "We were about to walk into the cinema."

"No. Yes, sorry. That's it. I'll see you later?"

"Love you!" Mary chirped and the connection ended. John stuffed the mobile numbly back into his pocket as Sherlock fairly vibrated next to him.

"Janine. Who is 'Janine'?"

"Mary's best friend. Mary wants her to be the maid of honor for the wedding in the spring."

"Surname?" Sherlock demanded, heading for his laptop.

"Uh... Hawkins, I think. Janine Hawkins." John lowered himself into his armchair, shaking his head. "Mary's with her right now. Should I phone Mary back and tell her to get away?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. "She's perfectly safe as long as Janine has no idea that we know who she is."

"Well, we _don't_ know who she is," John said, a sarcastic twist to the words. "So, that works perfectly."

"Quiet, John. I need to _think_ ," Sherlock said, and John rubbed a hand over his face. His Mate's best friend was in some way connected to the shooting that morning. If she was not the shooter then she was, at a minimum, part of the plot. And the plot revolved around John himself - it could not be a coincidence.

"You will not leave my sight until I know you are safe," Sherlock said suddenly, and it was not a request. John looked up, bristling. He took in Sherlock's expression, though, and his protests died on his lips. Sherlock's face was desperate, his hands resting palm-down on the desk. Despite them being planted firmly on the wooden surface, John could see a faint tremor in Sherlock's fingers. "I need to know that you are not in immediate danger, John."

"I... okay." John kept his voice soothing. "I'll call in to work again next week. They'll have to understand."

"I don't want you going back to your flat, either. You'll stay here until this has been solved."

"Now, wait a minute," John said. "Mary won't like that -"

"I don't _care_ what Mary likes!" Sherlock shouted, standing so violently that his desk chair toppled backwards. "I cannot _think_ if I'm constantly worrying over your safety. You must stay here where I can _know_ that you are safe until this has all been solved."

John's jaw clenched and he drummed his fingers against the arms of his chair, glaring at Sherlock across the room. He said nothing, letting his glare speak for him.

"Tell her what you will: the truth, a lie, I don't care. But you will be staying at Baker Street. We can go to your flat later to get whatever you'll need, but I do not want you to leave my side until this is solved."

"Very convenient," John said, his voice very low and soft.

"What?"

"You needing me at your side at all times when I'm newly bonded. I should be spending time with my Mate, strengthening our bond and insuring that we'll have a happy life together. Instead, I'll be stuck here watching my _ex_ mince around putting clues together."

Pain swept across Sherlock's face for a moment before he turned away, staring out the window that looked over Baker Street.

"Think what you will," Sherlock said eventually, clasping his hands behind his back. "I care only that you live. Everything else is secondary."

There were several minutes of silence. Sherlock kept his back to John and John continued to drum his fingers on the arms of the chair. Finally, Sherlock surrendered, turning to walk across the sitting room, planting his own hands gently on top of John's and stilling the incessant drumming of John's fingers.

"I have lost my Mate. Do not make me also lose my friend," he said, his voice intense. "Please, help me to solve this so that I can be assured of your safety. I will let you go on with your life with your M-Mate..." He stumbled over the word and had to pause, taking a deep and steadying breath before he could continue. "But for now, while you are in imminent danger, let me have the comfort of watching over you."

John's hands turned without him telling them to, twisting underneath's Sherlock's until he could clasp his fingers gently around Sherlock's. "All right. I'll stay here. We'll have to tell Mary what's happening. She won't like it... but, you're right. She's my bonded Mate now. Nothing will change that."

Sherlock's face twisted in pain, his hands clamping tightly to John's for a bare second before the tall man spun away and returned to his laptop and the Work.

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

Mary was pulled from sleep by the insistent pounding at the front door of her flat. She stumbled out of bed, still in her pajamas with her hair disheveled around her face, grabbing blindly for her dressing gown as she shook sleep from her mind. She grabbed for the handgun she kept tucked in a drawer in the china cabinet as she passed it, flipping off the safety as she raised her eye to the peephole in the door.

"Oh," she said softly, recognizing the face on the other side of the door. She left the gun's safety off as she unlocked and opened the door but she did not raise the gun to point it at her visitor.

"That took a remarkably long time," Janine said, her Irish brogue giving the words a lilt as she pushed past Mary and into the flat.

"I was asleep," Mary replied, pushing the door shut and latching it again.

"At half past six? Sleeping in, aren't you?"

"All part of my cover," Mary said, crossing her arms over her chest but keeping the gun out where Janine could see it.

"Aw, put that away," Janine said, gesturing at the gun. "I'm not here to hurt you. Not today."

Mary hesitated for a second and Janine's jovial appearance melted away, leaving her face cold. Mary knew that expression. She had seen it often enough on Janine's brother's face to know what it meant. She clicked the gun's safety back on and crossed over to the couch, plopping down before leaning out to place the gun on the coffee table in front of her.

"Much better," Janine said, the chill melting from her face as she settled on the couch next to Mary, dropping her purse next to her on the cushion. "So, it appears that Mycroft has 'rescued' the younger Holmes boy and they should be arriving in London within the next 48 hours. Your last report predicted John's next Heat right around now, didn't it?"

"Within the week," Mary confirmed, her pulse speeding.

"Good. I want you to go ahead with the bonding. If he doesn't suggest it, you do. And if he says no, you bite him anyway. If we're lucky, you'll get a complete bonding and be able to predict what he'll be thinking before he even knows it himself."

"That's extremely rare," Mary cautioned but Janine waved it away.

"I'm aware. You don't have to cover your arse, Mary. But a girl can dream." Janine paused, examining the unblemished lacquer on her nails for a moment before looking back up at Mary. "Regardless, I want him Mated to you before Sherlock gets a second chance. It's Sherlock's fault that Jim is dead and I _need_ him to suffer." Her words turned vicious at the end, her beautiful face twisting in fury.

Mary, wisely, said nothing.

After a moment, Janine's face melted into its usual pleasant mask. "You'll need to move to Phase Two within the next month, I think."

"But what about Stankevich?" Mary asked.

"Obviously, he'll need to be removed. Wait until after you've bonded John Watson to you; we need eyes on the doctor until then. But once you've accomplished that, feel free to take him out at your leisure. Let me know once you've bitten your Omega so that I can even send Stankevich a little unemployment notice to make the game that much more fun for everyone," Janine said, her eyes twinkling.

"Is that all for now?" Mary asked, and Janine gave a soft tut.

"We're meant to be friends, Mary. You could try to be happier to spend time with me. Here, I'll even sweeten the pot." Janine reached over to her pocketbook, undoing the snap to reach in and pull out a thick envelope. "It's a bonus to the previously agreed upon amount. I know how _difficult_ it will be to spend several days fucking an Omega."

Mary laughed. "Oh, right. Such a trial," she said, reaching for the envelope and glancing inside it quickly to verify that it was full of bank notes.

"There, that's better," Janine said, leaning back comfortably against the back of the couch. " _Now_ we're being friendly. And I _do_ want us to be friendly, Mary. I need you to guarantee that Sherlock is brought low before I finally kill him."

"And I get to keep John?" Mary asked.

"I've said 'yes.' He's your retirement bonus for being such a faithful employee for so many years," Janine said. "As long as you make sure that Sherlock Holmes is a broken man before I end his life." Janine kicked off her heels, bringing her feet up to rest on the coffee table next to Mary's gun. "Now, what's on the telly?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Now**

John could have predicted how the conversation with Mary would go when he called her late that afternoon to let her know he was going to be staying at Baker Street for awhile.

"Absolutely not!"

"Mary, listen -"

"No, John. No. I won't have it. You moving back into the same flat as your ex-Alpha is completely unacceptable."

"My life has been threatened," John said, raising his voice to overwhelm her protests. There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment and John waited. Across the sitting room, Sherlock had looked up from his laptop, his body straight and sharp like a sighthound on point as he focused exclusively on John.

"What do you mean?" Mary finally said, and her voice sounded hesitant now.

"Someone was shot this morning and they found a note near his body that said something about 'phase two of the plan for John Watson,'" John explained. "Sherlock thinks that I'll be safest at Baker Street, where I won't be alone."

"You can come stay with me," Mary said. "You're my Omega and -"

"Mary, stop," John interrupted, but Mary kept going.

"John, no. _You_ asked to be marked. You're mine now. I won't tolerate you staying at your ex-Alpha's flat."

"What happened to it doing me good to run around solving cases with him?" John snapped, getting angry. He thought she'd understood earlier how he felt about being called 'my Omega,' like he were a lamp or a chest of drawers.

"That's different to sleeping in the same bed as him!"

"Now hold on!" John shouted, his body going tight with a rush of anger. "What, exactly, do you mean by that?"

"All right, I said that wrong," Mary admitted. "But you have to look at this from my point of view, John."

"I am," John said. "What happened to 'I am not jealous of Sherlock Holmes,' hmm? What happened to knowing that we were Mates? My God, Mary, we've been seeing each other exclusively for almost eight months. Don't I deserve your trust?"

There was a long silence on the other end of the line before Mary said, "I'm coming over."

"Wait," John said, but the line had already disconnected. He swore, shoving his mobile back into his pocket.

"What?" Sherlock asked, still watching John with unblinking intensity from the desk.

"She's coming over." John sighed, rubbing at his forehead with one hand. "She's not happy."

"Understandable," Sherlock said. "I would ask that, should you need to have a domestic, you and Mary go upstairs to your old room to do so. I need silence to continue the Work."

"Have you found anything else on Janine?" John asked, leaning close. Surprisingly, Sherlock turned his laptop screen slightly away from John, bringing the lid down partially to obscure the screen.

"Focus on convincing your Mate to agree to you living here for the foreseeable future, John. _That_ is your work now. Let _me_ focus on Janine Hawkins."

John huffed but he couldn't argue the wisdom of what Sherlock was saying. There were still conventions in place that made the Alpha in an Alpha/Omega Mated pair the legal voice of the pair. True, most Alphas did not force their hand so in the modern age. However, if Mary wanted to, she could order him to stay with her at her flat and the police would have to back her up. The phrase "my Omega" rankled because it could still be a legal representation. Bonded Omegas could still be treated like property by the truly heinous Alphas in the world. It was rare in civilized countries, but not unheard of.

"Speaking of Janine, what should I tell Mary about Janine?" John asked. Sherlock shut the laptop, turning to look at him thoughtfully.

"As little as possible, I think. She is in no direct danger right now and she could give something away if we warn her of our suspicions."

"What about Lestrade? Couldn't he help you -"

"John. Please. Let me focus on this. You need to focus on Mary."

Sherlock was, unfortunately, right and John reached out, giving Sherlock's shoulder a small squeeze. For a brief second, he felt awkward - their relationship had never been the touchy-feely type outside of the three days of intense Heat sex. The look of utter contentment on Sherlock's face, though, convinced John that the brief shoulder squeeze had been the right choice. He headed through to the kitchen to set the kettle to boil, feeling almost happy for the moment.

That faded as soon as Mary stormed into the flat, Mrs. Hudson's consternation-filled voice following the other woman up the stairs. She didn't even pause to remove her coat or scarf once she stepped into the flat, moving with deliberate force towards Sherlock across the room.

"Mary," John said, but the look she shot him silenced him.

"And there's the man of the hour," she said, turning to stare at Sherlock from barely two feet away, intentionally invading his space. The look on her face was challenging. "So, what's the meaning of all of this, hmm?"

"I assume you want John to stay alive," Sherlock said mildly, not looking up from his laptop screen despite the fact that his hands had stilled on the keyboard as soon as she stepped into the flat.

"Obviously," Mary said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"That is my goal, as well." He stood, closing the laptop with a snap, before stepping toward Mary, putting them barely inches apart. He pressed his right hand to his sternum, bowing his head very slightly. "I acknowledge your claim on your Mate and relinquish any I may have had."

The words and the gesture held a note of formality and John rocked back on his heels, surprised that Sherlock knew them at all. Mary, however, looked gratified at the words.

"I accept your acknowledgement," she said, nodding slightly.

"Now that _that's_ out of the way," Sherlock said, turning back to his laptop, "perhaps you can stop worrying that your Mate is going to sneak behind your back to seek out another Alpha's knot and let me get on with doing what do I best."

"What's that?" Mary asked, looking unsure of herself for the first time since walking into the flat, her arms slowly uncrossing and drooping.

"Solving the case."

John stepped over, fighting down the urge to smile. Sherlock had handled a social situation beautifully. He had done it without being insulting... well, without being very insulting. John was proud of him. But, Mary wouldn't understand if John looked gleeful after her exchange with Sherlock, so he kept the smile off of his face.

"Tea?" he asked. "The kettle's just boiled."

"That would be fine," Mary said, still staring over at Sherlock. Her expression was no longer challenging. If anything, she looked slightly puzzled.

"We can talk," John offered, gesturing toward the kitchen.

"I _would_ like an explanation," Mary said, reaching out and taking John's hand. They walked through the sitting room to the kitchen like that, their hands clasped together. Behind them, Sherlock's fingers flew over his laptop keys as he was finally left to concentrate on the Work.

Mary slipped out of her jacket and scarf, setting them over the back of one of the chairs before settling into another chair, clasping her hands together on the table in front of her before looking up at John and raising her eyebrows.

"I told you most of it before," John said as he set up two mugs for tea. "The murder the police called us to this morning was in the building just behind my flat. There was a note next to the victim that said they were 'moving forward with phase two for John Watson.'"

"Phase two? What does that mean?" Mary asked, clenching her hands around her mug of steeping tea, her brow furrowed as she stared at John.

"Unfortunately, we have no idea. All we know is that there are people out there who aren't afraid to kill someone and that they're interested in me for some reason. Sherlock thinks that I'd be safer with someone to keep an eye on me at all times, so I'll be calling in to the clinic for the next week."

"That all makes sense," Mary agreed, "but, I don't see why you have to be here."

"Because I'm safer if I'm not alone," John repeated.

"So, you can come stay at _my_ place," Mary said. "I can keep an eye on you."

"It is less about keeping an eye on John and more about keeping an eye out for anyone who would mean him harm," Sherlock said from the sitting room.

"Sherlock, private conversation," John called out, reaching up to rub his hand over his eyes.

"Are you trying to say that I wouldn't be able to keep my Omega safe?" Mary asked, turning away from John to glare at Sherlock across the sitting room.

"Am I trying to say that a clinic nurse might not have the same expertise in identifying potential threats as a consulting detective?" Sherlock asked, refusing to look up from the laptop screen as he challenged Mary. "Yes, I am. While I don't doubt your devotion to John, I don't think you have the experience necessary to keep him safe in this situation."

Mary opened her mouth but after a couple of seconds of silence, she snapped it shut again, still glaring over at Sherlock. After another second of silent anger, she spun to look at John, her blue eyes snapping at him. "Give me your word that you won't be having sex with him, and I'll agree." She didn't need to clarify who she meant. John reached across the table, taking her hands into his gently.

"I promise you that I will not have sex with him. I am Mated and engaged to _you_ ," John reminded her. She searched his face silently. Slowly, she relaxed, obviously finding nothing in John's face to make her doubt his sincerity.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked, turning her hands in John's to wrap her fingers around his. It reminded John so strongly of what he'd done with Sherlock only minutes before that he had to look away from her, staring down into the milky depths of his mug of tea.

He cleared his throat before speaking, looking over at Sherlock. "I don't even know if _I_ can help. Mostly I'm just staying here to avoid whatever danger might be coming for me."

"Should I take off from the clinic for the next week, too?" Mary asked.

"No," Sherlock said from the sitting room, closing his laptop and rising. He walked toward the kitchen slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. "We need to minimize how many obvious changes there are in John's life. It could be assumed that he took off work to help me with a case but if you disappeared from the clinic, too, it might alert the killers that we're aware of them. You need to continue your normal life."

"What, I'm supposed to just take temperatures and make notes in charts when I don't know if someone's coming to kill my Omega?" Mary asked, incredulously.

"Stop doing that," Sherlock said, his eyes flashing up to Mary sharply.

"What?"

"Stop saying 'my Omega.' It upsets John every time."

"Sherlock, don't -" John said, but Sherlock overrode him.

"You flinch every time she says it. You obviously don't like it."

"No, I don't, but I don't need you intervening with my fiancée for me," John said, rising from the table to face the taller man. "Whatever problems Mary and I have are between us. I don't need you to help with them."

Sherlock stared, his eyebrows lowering as he took in John's determined expression. Finally, he turned away dismissively, saying, "As you prefer."

"I'm sorry," Mary said softly, still sitting at the table. "I know you don't like it. It's hard for me to... but I'll try to remember not to do that. I don't like upsetting you."

"Hey," John said, his voice soft. He walked around the table, reaching his arms out toward Mary. She stood and folded herself into his embrace, nuzzling her face into his neck. She rubbed her mouth against his jumper, just above the still-healing bond mark on his neck. "It's all right. We're all a little on edge right now."

"All right, so, I go to work tomorrow. Will I be seeing you again soon?" Mary asked, giving John a squeeze.

"I hope so," John said. "Sherlock can be obsessive when he has a new case. With any luck, he'll have this figured out in a few days and we can get back to planning the wedding and figuring out our life together."

"I'd like that. The sooner the better," Mary said, pulling back slightly. "But, I guess this means dinner's off for tonight?"

Sherlock's soft, derisive snort from the other room earned a quick glare from both John and Mary before John turned back to his Mate. "I think dinner is off for awhile unless you want Sherlock tagging along."

"Uh, no," Mary said quickly. "I don't share."

"Oh, God," Sherlock murmured under his breath, his eyes rolling as he turned away from the embracing pair in the kitchen.

"Please keep me updated on what's happening," Mary said, refusing to look at Sherlock.

"Of course," John agreed.

She gave John a lingering kiss before shooting one last, hard look at Sherlock. She gathered her coat and scarf and headed out. It wasn't until they heard the snick of the door to the street shutting behind Mary that Sherlock leaped from the desk, slamming his laptop shut. He spun his Belstaff off the coat rack, turning to look at John once it was on and he was tying his scarf.

"We should get what you need from your apartment now. I suggest this trip be very fast, absolute necessities only."

Thanks to Sherlock's prodding, John managed to get most of what he thought he'd need packed into a case and back to Baker Street in under an hour. Stepping into his old bedroom to unpack was jarring. For a moment, memories of two years before overwhelmed John and he had to lean against the wall, breathing unsteadily. So many nights laying in his lonely bed, fighting against the waves of depression as he missed Sherlock.

"John?" Sherlock's deep voice came from the landing just outside of John's bedroom door. "Is everything...?"

"Memories," John said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, straightening up and shaking off the lingering sorrow. "Just bad memories."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He simply reached out and rested his palm on John's shoulder, mimicking the move John had done earlier that afternoon. The touch was surprisingly soothing, and John relaxed.

"So... we should figure out what to order for dinner," John said. "Since I have to unpack, why don't you call it in?"

Sherlock grimaced but he didn't argue. In only twenty minutes, John was settling in to eat pad thai from a takeaway container as Sherlock tacked printouts of information above the couch. It was so familiar that John found himself slipping back into their usual routine, not even considering that he'd made plans with Mary that morning to go to dinner. Really, not even thinking of Mary at all.

Once dinner was eaten, he spent several hours in his armchair reading the newspaper while Sherlock tapped away on his laptop. It wasn't until John began yawning hard enough to make his jaw pop that he realized it was getting close to midnight.

"I'm heading up," John said. "I realize that you want to solve this as quickly as possible, but as your friend and physician, I recommend you try to get at least some sleep tonight."

"Hmm," Sherlock said, not looking up from his laptop. John shook his head, giving Sherlock a fond look before heading upstairs.

He'd been asleep for awhile when a horrified shout from downstairs jerked him awake from deep sleep. John flung himself out of bed, heart pounding, disoriented. He hesitated, wondering if it had been a dream. A second, strained sound of pain from downstairs had John leaping down the staircase in just his t-shirt and sweatpants, his heart in his throat.

The lights were still on in the sitting room and John found Sherlock after only a single scan of the room. Sherlock was still at his desk, his dark head pillowed on his arm on top of the desk. He was asleep and whatever he was dreaming about was obviously tormenting him.

"Sherlock?" John said, stepping up next to him. When Sherlock didn't respond, John reached out for Sherlock's shoulder, giving it a gentle shake as he said, "Wake up, Sh -"

Sherlock roared out of the chair, his hands locking onto John's throat. John reacted instantly and instinctively, his own arms coming up to break Sherlock's hold and knock him back. Still disoriented, Sherlock tripped over the desk chair behind him and fell to the floor, his back slamming against the wall.

"What? Where did he...?" Sherlock looked up at John, his expression confused. "John? How did I... this is our flat. Am I dreaming?"

"Not now," John said, his pulse still thundering, adrenaline rushing through him. He still wanted to hit someone and he flexed his hands into fists, trying to get a handle on his automatic response to being strangled. "You _were_ dreaming. I woke you up and you tried to choke me."

"God," Sherlock whispered, raking his fingers through the crown of his hair, leaving the dark curls in wild disarray. "I was back in the torture room. He was... he had the lighter again... and the bullwhip. I kept trying to get to my mind palace but I couldn't get away. I couldn't get away." Sherlock buried his fingers in his hair, his body curling forward until his elbows rested on the floor by his knees as he shuddered, his voice sinking to indistinct whispers.

John felt a surge of empathy. He understood PTSD intimately. He'd had some very, very bad nights when he'd first been invalided back home from Afghanistan. Seeing Sherlock curled on the floor of the sitting room and shaking with memories was depressingly familiar to John.

He pushed the chair out from the desk and out of his way, lowering himself to his knees in front of Sherlock. He leaned forward, reaching one hand out to brush his fingertips gently against the knuckles of Sherlock's hand where it was buried in dark curls. Sherlock surged forward and John fell back, expecting a second attack. Instead, Sherlock's arms wrapped around John's ribs and Sherlock pressed his face against John's chest. Sherlock's breath hitched once, twice, and John realized the normally calm, detached man was sobbing.

"I kept myself going to come back to you," Sherlock said, his voice ragged. "I endured the torture to come back to you. I'd already dismantled Moriarty's network when they captured me. I would have been home two months sooner if I'd just been a little more clever."

"Stop. _Don't_ say that." John blinked hard, his eyes burning from his own repressed tears. "You _are_ clever. There is no one more clever than you."

"Not then," Sherlock said. "Not when it mattered."

Slowly, John sat back on his heels and wrapped his own arms around Sherlock's body as the taller man shook with misery. The rising sun was beginning to brighten the sky outside the window; no point in trying to get any more sleep that night. Besides, John would not have left Sherlock's side at that moment for anything.

**\- - - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

"So, I must admit that I did have an ulterior motive in taking you out to a nice dinner tonight," John said and Mary looked up from the menu. They were in The Landmark Hotel's beautiful restaurant, both looking incredibly posh. Mary had taken extra care with her hair and makeup, suspecting what John had in mind when he'd said he had a 'special night out' planned for them. She knew she looked absolutely stunning and she used it to good effect, looking up at him through her mascara-darkened lashes and quirking her lips into a faint smile.

"Really? I thought surely this was my just reward for being such a good girlfriend."

"Well, you are that," John agreed. "But I had something I've been wanting to ask you."

Mary's mobile began to ring from inside her beaded handbag and John stopped, obviously thrown off. Mary glanced down at her bag and grimaced, popping it open and removing her mobile to glance at the incoming call information. "I need to take this. I'm so sorry - one minute, all right?"

She pushed her chair back from the table, pressing the accept button and bringing the mobile to her ear as she headed for the staircase across the restaurant, putting as much distance between herself and John as possible.

"Janine, this is _really_ not the best time," she began but Janine's voice on the other end of the line was brisk.

"Sherlock is in London. I'll be letting Stankevich know he's no longer needed within the next 72 hours. I need you to make certain that he's taken care of."

"What's my time frame look like?" Mary asked.

"No more than one week," Janine said. "I don't need loose ends lying around."

"Have you heard from Moran?" Mary asked, knowing that Janine had been trying to bring the man in on her plan for months. He had been Jim Moriarty's right-hand man, a sniper who put even Mary to shame with his exacting skill.

"No, Sebastian is still proving impossible to track down," Janine said, her voice turning sad. "Honestly, I've no idea what happened to him after Jim died. Maybe Sebastian went into hiding or maybe he killed himself, too. I don't know. And if Sebastian doesn't want to be found, he won't be. We're just going to have to go forward without him."

"I'm sorry," Mary said softly. She knew Janine had been fond of Moran. The man had idolized her brother almost as much as Janine herself did.

"Aw, we'll manage," Janine said dismissively. "Just be sure you drive any wedge you can between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. It shouldn't be too hard for you. Just keep reminding yourself that you stand to lose your Omega if you don't."

Mary clenched her jaw, her hand tightening on the mobile phone. "Right."

"I need to finish setting up our little torture chamber for Mr. Holmes. I've just come back from looking at what they had in Serbia; it'll be a struggle to do better than them, especially since Sherlock took out several of Jim's best pain artists in the last two years... but, I'm fairly confident I've found some new talent that will be able to remind Sherlock of everything he enjoyed while he was in their tender care."

"And I only need to deliver Sherlock to you, right? Torture isn't really my area of expertise."

"I know that your love is all for guns, Mary," Janine said, her voice teasing. "Although I won't blame you if you decide to stay and watch the show once you've gotten to know Sherlock Holmes. As I understand it, he's a right bastard."

"Is that all?" Mary asked. "I'm fairly certain John was about to propose when you called."

"Ooo!" Janine trilled. "Right, then, off you pop. Go get a ring on your finger before he gets tied to your knot."

Mary hung up, composing her features back into a pleasant mask, and then headed back downstairs to accept John Watson's proposal of marriage.


	15. Chapter 15

**Now**

"They found the note," Mary said furiously, keeping her voice low as she glared at Janine. "They found the bloody note you sent Stankevich as a _joke._ "

They were in Mary's flat. Mary had phoned Janine in the wee hours of the morning, as soon as she'd put together all the clues that she'd picked up from the conversation at Sherlock's flat the day before. She'd known Janine would be angry when Mary explained her suspicions, but things would be considerably worse for Mary if she withheld information from Janine.

"Weren't you meant to have taken that, Mary?" Janine's voice was lilting and merry sounding, but it was false; Mary knew what that sweet, teasing tone actually meant.

"I forgot," Mary said, her tone flat and cautious.

"So, they know that someone is interested in John Watson."

"More than that," Mary said, hesitating.

"Well?" Janine prompted.

"They recognized your handwriting. That's the only explanation for John calling me yesterday to ask about who had written the note at the bottom of my list of venues."

The fury that swept over Janine's face transformed her and Mary cringed back involuntarily. Janine started toward Mary, reaching into her handbag, and Mary spoke quickly.

"They know you're involved somehow but they don't realize that I am yet. I can still get Sherlock Holmes to you. The plan isn't off, it's just changed."

Janine paused, one hand inside her handbag. She stood just in front of Mary, her eyes distant as she considered. Finally, she pulled her hand out of her handbag. It was empty. Mary released a silent sigh of relief as Janine moved slowly away from her.

"This moves things forward a bit. I can have the warehouse ready by this evening. Just make sure that you have both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes there tonight. You can ride off into the sunset with your bonded Omega and I can watch Sherlock Holmes be tortured to death for killing my big brother. Happy endings for everyone." She turned around at the door to Mary's flat, glancing back over at the other woman. "Better get dressed, dear. You have work to do."

Janine breezed out the door, slamming it shut behind her, and Mary reached for her mobile to text John.

* * * * *

Across London, John's mobile buzzed on the kitchen table where he'd set it when he started putting together breakfast for himself and Sherlock. The sun was over the horizon now, turning the sky a faint pink. Sherlock was still trembling slightly from the nightmare and John felt that some tea and toast would do the other man a world of good.

"Who's texting?" John asked. Sherlock frowned slightly, lifting John's mobile to look at the screen.

"It's Mary," Sherlock said, putting the mobile back on the table facedown.

"What did she want?"

"She's hoping you have a nice day," Sherlock said after a brief pause.

"That's nice," John said absently, sliding Sherlock's mug of tea and a plate of toast over to him. "Look, I want you to drink all of that. And eat this. You need the calories. You've gotten much too thin; it's reaching the point where I'm worried, Sherlock."

Sherlock grimaced faintly, but he accepted the tea and toast. "How would you know how thin I am?" he muttered, lifting one slice of toast to crunch noisily on it.

"I was holding you this morning," John said, pointing into the sitting room where, only a half-hour before, he'd had Sherlock cradled in his arms as the other man shook after his nightmare. "I could practically count your ribs with my fingertips. Eat your toast."

Sherlock took a second, more vicious bite of the toast as he glared silently at John. Faintly amused, John settled at the table with his own breakfast.

The toast was finished and the tea was cooling when John heard the buzzer from downstairs. He glanced at the time, surprised that anyone would be dropping by so early.

"That will be Mycroft," Sherlock said, springing from the table. John started to stand and then realized that he was still in his t-shirt and sweatpants from the night before. Sherlock, having never gotten undressed for bed, was the logical person to get the door. With a sigh, John turned to trudge up to his bedroom and get his own clothes on for the day. Somehow, it didn't appeal to him to be standing in his pajamas when Mycroft was in the flat.

By the time John came back down, Sherlock was ushering his brother out of the flat.

"Are you sure you -" Mycroft said as Sherlock herded the taller man towards the door.

"I'm quite sure, Mycroft. Thank you for your help, et cetera, now leave."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice disapproving, looking back at his brother for a moment. "All right. As you prefer. Good morning, John."

"Mycroft," John said, nodding over to the other man.

And, with pleasantries taken care of, Mycroft headed down the stairs. Sherlock slammed the door and turned to John, holding a file folder in one hand. He fidgeted for a second, running the fingers of his free hand along the edges of the files, before he walked over the his leather armchair and settled himself in it, resting the folder on his knees.

"What's that?" John asked, curious.

"John, I want you to sit down," Sherlock said, nodding towards John's chair. His tone of voice was careful and it immediately made John cautious.

"Why? What's going on? What's in that file folder?"

"John, please, just sit down. I need to tell you something."

John's entire body tightened, his hands clenching at his sides as he hesitated. Finally, he gave a brief nod and marched to his chair, settling himself into it. He remained tight with anticipation, sitting practically on the edge of the seat cushion.

"The longer I research Janine Hawkins, the more apparent it became that she was using an assumed name. I had to pull in some favors to find out who she actually is, but it was worth it. 'Hawkins' is her mothers maiden name, not the surname Janine was born with. Janine's actual last name is Moriarty."

The air went out of John's lungs in a whoosh and he collapsed back into his chair. "Moriarty? She's..."

"Jim Moriarty's younger sister," Sherlock said, nodding. "I can only imagine she is here because she's seeking revenge for what happened on the rooftop of St. Bart's two years ago -"

"Sherlock, what _did_ happen?" John asked. "You never told me about any of it."

"None of it matters right now, except that Jim Moriarty took his own life. Obviously, she blames me for that and is here now for some revenge scheme."

"So, what do we do? If she's anything like her brother -"

"I imagine they are two of a kind," Sherlock interjected, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Then that probably means the police won't be able to hold her for long, even if we can connect her to the murder from this morning by anything more than a random note," John continued, not bothered by Sherlock's interruption. "She'll come after us as soon as she's able to get away from the officials and it'll be two years ago all over again."

"We won't be going to the police," Sherlock said.

"So, what are we going to do?"

"John, there's more. Janine isn't the only problem right now."

"More?" John asked, incredulous. "What the hell else could there be? Isn't Moriarty's _sister enough?_ "

"John, please, I need you to be calm now. I need you to be calm and listen to me." Sherlock tapped the pads of his fingers against the file in his lap for a moment and John went still, staring down at the file folder which had suddenly taken on nightmarish proportions in his eyes.

"What's in that folder?" John asked, his voice tight.

"The deeper I dug into Janine, the more I wondered what possible connection she could have to Mary."

"No," John said, but the word was little more than a breath of air. It lacked conviction.

"I thought perhaps Janine had some kind of blackmail that she was using to get closer to Mary and therefore closer to you and me. I hit a wall, though, when I tried to go further into Mary's past than five years ago. I couldn't find anything."

"No," John said again, slightly louder, shutting his eyes to try and shut out what Sherlock was saying. "Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetary. The woman we know as Mary apparently did not exist before five years ago," Sherlock said, keeping his voice gentle. "That is as far as I was able to dig on my own. I had to contact Mycroft and ask him to use his considerable influence to find out anything more. He confirmed what I suspected and brought hardcopies of everything I felt you would need."

"This is a trick," John said, opening his eyes to stare at Sherlock. A tight smile twisted the corners of his mouth up but did not touch his eyes. "You're trying to break me and Mary up. It's just a trick."

"No trick," Sherlock said, shaking his head slowly.

"You're lying to me," John said, clenching his hands on top of his thighs.

"I'm not lying to you," Sherlock said. "Mary Morstan appeared five years ago. The woman we know as Mary Morstan has had many names in many places, although none of those names were any more real than 'Mary Morstan.' She was - and as far as I can tell, still is - a killer for hire. Janine does not appear to be blackmailing Mary into doing anything. It seems Mary is in her employ."

"Stop," John said, slamming one fist down onto his thigh with bruising force. Sherlock flinched faintly, but did not look away as John raised his rage-filled eyes to Sherlock's face. "Are you telling me that the woman I've been dating for _eight months_ , the woman I'm engaged to be _married_ to..." John paused, his mouth tightening momentarily before he could continue. "The Alpha that I am _bonded_ to... is a murderer? A hired killer?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "There's proof enough to convince you in this file. I glanced through it when Mycroft first arrived."

John glared at Sherlock, a vein in his temple pulsing. Sherlock stared back, his face calm and... sympathetic?

"Don't," John said, raising a hand to point at Sherlock's face. "Don't you do that. Don't you look at me like I need your bloody sympathy."

"John -"

"No! This isn't... you don't get to do that. You don't get to tell me that I'm marrying a psychopath and then look at me like..." John trailed off, unable to find the words. He threw himself from his chair in frustration, pacing the flat in helpless anger. After a moment, he spun to face Sherlock, his voice tight with frustrated tears. "She wasn't supposed to _be_ like that. Why is she like that?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. He rose from his chair and held the file folder towards John. "She tricked you, John, hid who she was to convince you to be with her. _She_ tricked you. _She_ lied to you. She wanted something from you, and - based purely on the work she has done in the past - I am forced to assume she was meant to keep an eye on you in case I came back." Sherlock took a step closer, reaching out with his free hand to rest just the very tips of his fingers on John's forearm. "If we are to make a plan for dealing with both Mary and Janine, you need to be aware of who she is. Please, John." Sherlock proffered the file again. Slowly, John reached up and grasped it.

Sherlock turned away, lifting his violin and bow to begin a soft, nonintrusive melody as John walked slowly over to the couch, moving like a man twice his age, and settled himself underneath the wall of thumbtacked papers to read the file on his bonded Mate's sins.

When John finally lowered the open file to the coffee table some time later, his face was pale and his hands were shaking slightly. Sherlock looked over at him, took in his expression, and tossed his violin and bow onto his armchair. He moved unhesitatingly to the kitchen, turning the kettle on. Sherlock stayed in the kitchen until he had completed making tea, crossing the sitting room in long strides to deposit the cup in front of John. It sat on the coffee table next to the open file for several minutes before John reached for it and took a steadying sip.

"So," John said, keeping his hands wrapped around the cup, "what do we do now?"

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

"I need to hire you to do a job for me," Janine said, smiling at the dark-haired woman sitting across the desk from her. "There's a man in London that needs looking after and I think you're just the one to do it. You'll have to change your identity just a little, I think - bleach your hair and take up an interest in nursing. But you can keep the Mary Morstan identity."

"Oh, good," Mary said, crossing her ankles in front of her as she shifted to get more comfortable in the plush desk chair. "I've gotten comfortable in this skin."

"I'll need you to be romantically involved with him, though, so you'll have to stop seeing David Lansley."

"How did you know about -"

"Oh, Mary. Do you think that I don't have spies watching my spies? What a dull life that would be!" Janine laughed, shaking her head slightly at the other woman. "If it helps, there's something to sweeten the deal." Janine dropped a thick folder on the polished wood desk in front of Mary. After a second, Mary lifted the heavy folder off the varnished desk top and pulled it into her lap. She opened it, reading briefly.

"An _Omega?_ " she asked, looking up at Janine sharply. The wanting in her face was obvious.

"Just for you," Janine agreed. "And, I want you to bond with him. In fact, I will absolutely require it of you. Don't worry, though; if he gets too tiresome, I won't mind at all if you kill him eventually, once we've completed the actual mission."

Mary looked back down at the file, lifting a photograph to stare at it hungrily. "He's nice to look at, anyway."

"And fairly clever," Janine said. "He's a retired army doctor and the best mate of Sherlock Holmes."

Mary looked up from the picture again, her eyes sharpening as she stared at Janine. "Oh, so _that's_ why you want me to bond with him."

"All our intelligence suggests that poor, emotionally-repressed Sherlock is terribly in love with Dr. Watson. I don't know if they ever had a chance to get to _know_ each other, Biblically speaking, but it won't matter. Just in case Sherlock ever does come back to London and Dr. John Watson, I want his heart to break when he sees just how happy someone else is making the man he loves." Janine leaned out, tapping a fingernail on top of the desk. "And you _will_ make him happy, Mary. You do anything you have to, as long as you guarantee that he is absolutely head over heels for you. If Sherlock comes back and I'm able to finish him, you can stop pretending if you want to... or keep pretending. I don't care. This is going to be your final job. I know you've been enjoying being out of commission for the last three years; you've earned it. If you're sure you're ready to be done with the life, I can give you a comfortable severance package. The Omega will be included, of course, if you decide to take him with you."

Mary looked down at the picture again, a wave of lust tingling through her as she surveyed John Watson covetously. "I'll take him with me. If he fights it, I'll enjoy breaking him."

Janine smiled approvingly, leaning back in her desk chair. "That's my girl."


	16. Chapter 16

**Now**

"I can only imagine that they have a plan for us. I cannot surmise what it might be, but I am confident that it is coming to a head," Sherlock said, pacing in front of the coffee table. "Mary has undoubtedly gone to Janine with our concerns about the note at the murder scene. Depending on how clever Mary is - and for her to have lived under assumed identities for years, I have to assume that she is _very_ clever - she may have connected your calling her about the handwriting at the bottom of her list to the note at the murder. They probably know that we are aware of who Janine is and that we might even know who Mary is. From this point on, we will have to operate on the belief that they know as much as we do."

John nodded numbly, staring down into the cup of milky tea he held.

"I don't know if they will try a frontal attack by breaking into the flat to take us away or if they will try a sneak attack and try to lure us out. If it is the latter, I would guess that it would be Mary who would come to try and lure you. It is of the utmost importance that you do _not_ let on that you know what she is and that you go with her, John. Can you manage?"

When John didn't respond, Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to look at the man sitting on the couch. John had not touched his tea beyond the first sip and continued to stare down into his tea cup. His face was utterly blank.

"John?" Sherlock's voice turned soft and he stepped towards the other man, crouching in front of the couch and resting his hands on John's knees. "John? Are you listening?"

"I'm Mated to a psychopath," John said softly, finally looking up from his tea cup to stare at Sherlock's face. He set the cup down on the coffee table, obviously uninterested in the brew. "I'm tied to someone who has killed _hundreds_ of people."

"I know," Sherlock said, sympathy touching his face. "But now isn't the time to focus on that."

"When would be good, then?" John asked, pain causing his expression to tighten. "In a week or two? Would that be convenient for your plans?"

Sherlock squeezed John's knees gently, leaning towards the other man's distress automatically. "John, I know that this is a shock to you. I agree that you should be allowed to feel everything that is undoubtedly swamping your mind right now, but there is no time. I can almost guarantee that whatever plans they had for us have been moved forward now. I don't know if their strike will come within days or _hours_ , but I know that we cannot have long. I need you to focus."

John's jaw clenched and he looked into Sherlock's face, not speaking as his eyes moved across the familiar features. Finally, he reached down to rest his own hands on top of Sherlock's, giving them a soft squeeze. "I'm listening."

John expected Sherlock to rise to his feet and resume his pacing but the dark haired man stayed on his knees before John, his hands unmoving from John's knees. "I know you have never been the most convincing liar, but I need you to try. The more I consider the two courses of action possible, the more I am sure that they will not bother with a frontal attack and will choose to come at us quietly. I am sure that Mary will come for you soon, and when she does you _must_ give every indication that you trust her." Sherlock paused, eyes thoughtful, and then added in a murmur, "You should probably keep your gun on you at all times from now on."

"Right," John said, absently stroking his fingers across the backs of Sherlock's hands, which were still resting warmly on his knees.

"When she comes, you must go with her. I will follow and we will have to see what possible scenarios can play out from there." Sherlock glanced down, his face softening as he became aware of John's absent-minded stroking of his hands.

John knew he should take his hands back; he was Mated. This was a direct breach of everything that a Mating bond was meant to safeguard. But, then again, Mary had lied to and tricked him. Their entire Mating bond was a sham. Why shouldn't he do exactly what he wanted? Why shouldn't he give in to the desires that had been hounding him relentlessly since he had realized that Sherlock was still alive?

At that moment, it made complete sense for John to lean forward, bringing his hands up to softly cup Sherlock's face, his tanned fingers resting possessively on the pale skin of Sherlock's cheeks as he leaned towards Sherlock.

Sherlock fell back, crashing into the coffee table and shoving it across the floor. John rose to his feet, embarrassment rolling through him and bringing a flush of blood to his face. But Sherlock was rising to his feet quickly, reaching towards John and catching the other man's hands in his again.

"I did not want you to kiss me if it is only revenge for your bonded Alpha having lied to you. If, when this is all over, you still want to kiss me, I will not fall back from it," Sherlock said, his voice very low and soft as he captured John's eyes with his own.

"Fair enough," John said, his mouth gone dry at the intensity of Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock released John's hands and spun away, snagging the file folder off the coffee table and opening it as he began to peruse the contents again. John hesitated, still standing in front of the couch. Dimly, he felt a tug from the Mating bond, as if Mary were standing nearby... but that was ridiculous. It was guilt from what he'd just tried to do. Even if his Mate was a lying, murdering psychopath, she was still his Mate and he'd been trying to convince his ex to kiss him.

John rubbed at the mark on his neck, wishing he had never asked for it. It had been a mistake to think that he could be happy with anyone after Sherlock had so thoroughly claimed his mind, heart, and body. But he was trapped now. The only way to get out of a Mating bond was for one of the Mates to die, and while he was hurt by Mary's treachery, he certainly didn't wish death on her.

John froze, his hand still cupping the mark on his neck. That was wrong. There was more than one way out of a Mating bond. He had experienced it himself two years before.

He glanced quickly at Sherlock but the other man was still reading through the files in the folder. John murmured something about getting his gun from his room and hurried up the stairs, pulling his mobile from his pocket and scrolling through his contacts to Mycroft's name.

Several hours later, Sherlock had given up the file folder in favor of playing his violin once again and John was reading one of Sherlock's random books from the bookshelves around the flat. He was beginning to feel peckish. He marked his place in the book with a scrap of paper before rising to check if there was anything in the fridge besides body parts.

"We're out of milk again," he called to Sherlock. There was no response, but he hadn't been expecting one. "I don't suppose a trip to the shops is in our plans for the afternoon?"

"No," Sherlock said, and John sighed, shutting the fridge before heading into the sitting room.

"Then can I pop down to see if Mrs. Hudson has some she can spare? I promise to not even touch the front door."

"Take your gun," Sherlock said, his voice the barest murmur.

"What, down to Mrs. Hudson's?" John asked, incredulous.

"Everywhere, John. I thought I'd made that clear."

"Great," John muttered, but he tucked it into the back of his trousers and pulled his jumper over it before clattering downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat. He tapped at the door and waited.

It opened within a moment and he turned, a smile on his face as he prepared to beg for any milk she could spare but the smile froze as he realized he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Don't say anything," Mary said, her voice incredibly soft. He could feel the tug from the bond again, the same one he'd been feeling upstairs and attributing to guilt. "I would really hate to shoot you."

John's eyes darted past Mary, trying to see into the flat.

"She's fine," Mary said. "She's just having a little sleep right now. She'll wake up soon, though, so we need to get going. Do you know, she can hear almost every little noise from your flat? It was fascinating, listening to the great Sherlock Holmes working out the details earlier today."

John's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists. Mary took note of it and a soft smile spread across her face.

"Oh, John... the most Alpha Omega. You are absolutely gorgeous, you know that? But compliments can wait; we have to get going now. Sherlock _did_ tell you to go along with me once I showed up, so let's go." Mary gestured with the gun and John turned slowly, moving with military precision as he headed toward the front door.

They left the front door standing open as they went - "Don't want it to slam and give the game away," Mary had said - and Mary moved up close to him as they made their way down the street. Her gun was pressed into his side gently, a reminder not to do anything foolish. He matched his pace to hers, keeping his mouth tightly shut. Sherlock had said to go with her when she inevitably showed up. Sherlock had said he would follow. John had to trust that Sherlock was paying attention.

"I need you to slowly hand back your mobile. I don't want you trying to call for help."

John fished it carefully out of his trouser pocket, holding it back for Mary to take.

"We're going into this alley up ahead," Mary said, her voice conversational. "I'll need you to do the driving since I don't want you getting any ideas about trying to take me down. As I said, John, I would hate to shoot you, but if you try to disarm me, I will definitely do it. I'll try to only wound you, but you've seen enough gunshot wounds in your life to know that sometimes it doesn't matter how trivial the wound should be."

Following Mary's instructions, John backed the car out of the alley and headed down Baker Street, away from Sherlock and the flat. After they had been driving for a few minutes, Mary pulled her mobile out of her pocket and lifted it to her ear. There was a pause and she said, "I have him. You're clear."

"Clear for what?" John asked, his voice cold.

"To get Sherlock, of course," Mary replied, putting her mobile away again.

John's hands tightened on the wheel as he fought the urge to turn the car back. Mary waggled the gun slightly.

"I wouldn't. Don't worry; you'll see him soon enough. We're going to take the scenic route to give Janine a chance to get to know him a little better. Mind your speed; I'd hate for us to arrive before she's had a chance to soften him up properly."

The next few hours were torturous. They circled in and out of London, driving around and around through the traffic until John was ready to scream. Mary had stopped talking except for occasional instructions to 'turn left here' or 'mind your speed.' It was almost a relief when she steered them onto a lane of old, grubby warehouses and told John to slow the car.

"There. The third one up ahead. Pull in behind it and turn the car off."

John did as instructed, leaving his hands on the wheel once he'd silenced the engine. Mary made a soft, approving noise and reached out with her free hand to stroke her fingers across his cheek.

John did not flinch or pull back, but it took effort. He wanted to shout at her, demand answers for why she had lied to him and, moreover, why she had chosen him to be her plaything. Worry for Sherlock, though, kept him from speaking. They had been driving for four hours; what had happened to the other man while they had been wasting time?

"We're going to get out of the car now," Mary said. "If you try to run, I will shoot you. You will get out and place both hands on top of the car and wait for me to come around. Is that clear?"

"Yes," John said, and he followed her instructions exactly.

Out of the car, John kept hearing faint, repetitive noises. It sounded like a large dog barking far away, intermittent bursts of sound that popped and then faded away. He wondered if it was likely anyone, apart from Mary, would hear him if he called for help.

"Time to go inside," Mary said, pressing the gun into his side once more. "We have to make an appearance before Janine will let us go on with our life together."

John's nostrils flared as he took in a shuddering, furious breath; it was the only sign of the well of anger swelling inside of him. He followed Mary's prodding without complaint, moving towards the warehouse behind which they had parked. The barking dog was louder here and it was only when John reached for the handle of the door that led into the warehouse that he realized the noises he was hearing were not a dog barking; they were the sounds of a human screaming in pain.

He pulled the door open and Mary nearly shoved him in. He stumbled several steps before he was able to stop himself and Mary slammed the door shut behind him, murmuring, "Sorry. Didn't want the sound getting out."

Now that he was inside the warehouse, John could understand why. The screams were horrific, echoing and rebounding off the empty cavern of the building. They were just as intermittent as they had been when John had been outside, explaining why he'd thought they'd been a dog barking. As they stepped into the warehouse properly, John could see why.

Sherlock was dangling from chains attached to manacles around his wrists. A man stood behind him with a cat-of-nine-tails, applying it in bursts against Sherlock's straining back. Blood flew with each strike and screams ripped from Sherlock's throat as he pressed forward against the manacles, trying to escape the pain.

"Jesus," John whispered, trying to rush forward, but Mary, anticipating his reaction, stepped closer and pressed her gun into his temple.

"Don't. Walk _slowly_."

Hands clenching at his sides, John obeyed.

John's attention was so caught by Sherlock that he didn't notice Janine until he was almost on her. He had met her twice before and had thought she seemed a lovely, friendly woman. When she turned away from the spectacle in front of her to look at John and Mary, though, John remembered with shocking clarity the moment that he had seen the clumsily-flirting Jim from IT on the street outside his favorite pub one evening and had realized that there were dark depths to the supposedly harmless man. He had ended up strapped to explosives after that meeting; he sincerely hoped he wasn't in for more of the same.

Janine still looked like the same pretty woman that he had met, but there was something in her eyes that made John want to go for the gun at his back and kill her. It was a look he had seen before on the faces of enemy combatants in Afghanistan. It was a look that John associated with pain, death, and misery. The soldier in him reacted instantly, wanting to nullify the threat, but John held himself still. To go for his gun now, with Mary pressing her own weapon against his head, would guarantee a bad outcome for both him and Sherlock.

"Trouble in paradise?" Janine asked, looking at the gun pressing into John's temple.

"Just reminding him to play nice," Mary said, lowering the gun to her side. "I'll still shoot you, John, if you try anything."

"I remember," John said softly, trying to keep his eyes on Janine but failing massively. Sherlock was within twenty feet of him, stripped to his trousers. From the blood running freely down his chest, it was obvious that the torture had not started when John and Mary had pulled up. Had Sherlock been taken right after John had been forced out of the flat? Had they been torturing him for the better part of four hours?

"Hold on a minute, Rostam. I won't be able to hear myself think, let alone be able to have a conversation, if he keeps _bleating_ like that," Janine said, not even glancing over her shoulder.

The man with the cat-of-nice-tails paused, stepping back from Sherlock. He moved over to a folding picnic table positioned nearby and laid the weapon down, perusing an assortment of other torture devices laid across the table.

Sherlock immediately collapsed, hanging from the chains limply. John could hear his gasping inhalations from twenty feet away and couldn't stop himself from drifting closer, horror drawing him in.

"Poor lamb," Janine said, watching him. "He's only getting what he deserves, though. Drove my brother nearly insane, you know."

"Nearly?" John asked and immediately wished he hadn't said it, but Janine just laughed.

"I know you weren't a fan of Jim's, but he wasn't as crazy as he liked to pretend. He always enjoyed a show. I suppose we have that in common," Janine said, gesturing toward the dangling, panting man beyond her. "But Jim didn't deserve to die. He was absolutely brilliant and he could have changed so much in the world... if not for Sherl over there."

John had nothing to say. He turned away from Sherlock, glaring at Janine. She caught his look and raised her eyebrows.

"Really, John? If our positions were reversed and you had a chance to torture my brother after he'd effectively killed Sherlock, would you take the high road?"

"I would," John said, and Janine laughed at him. "I _would_ because what you're doing right now is evil. You're hurting him just because your brother killed himself. Sherlock didn't kill him; that was Moriarty's choice. If what you were after was a one-to-one exchange, you could have killed Sherlock and been done with it. But you want petty, childish revenge."

"You're right," Janine agreed, looking back at Sherlock were he drooped, struggling to get his feet underneath him now that the lashing had stopped. "I like revenge. I think it helps the healing process. I've been feeling better and better these last few months."

"Months?" John asked.

"Who do you think put Mary in your path so that you'd fall in love with her? Who do you think told Mary to bite your little Omega neck? It's been _my_ plan from the start. I wanted to be sure that Sherlock Holmes suffered as much as I've suffered the last two years. I knew the best way to do that would be to completely destroy his heart... and Jim proved that that's _you._ " Janine said, leaning out to poke her index finger lightly into John's chest. He tensed, fighting the urge to go for his gun. He had to wait until the right moment. "Anyone who paid attention could see how completely in love with you he was. And still is. There's nothing Sherlock Holmes wouldn't do for John Watson, is there, Sherl?" She stepped past John, moving a little nearer to Sherlock.

Sherlock made a weak noise, raising his head slightly. John could see ugly swelling around one eye that would grow into a truly impressive black eye, if Sherlock survived this experience. He also had blood streaking down from both his nose and his mouth, turning his chin into a gore-streaked horror. John met his eyes for a brief moment before Sherlock's head dropped forward again.

"I mean, I only had to tell him that we had you and he came along willingly. Practically locked himself into the manacles when I threatened to have you killed if he resisted. I could almost say that this," she gestured back towards Sherlock's beaten body before turning to smile at John, "is actually all _your_ fault because he wouldn't have allowed any of it to happen if not for _you_."

The gun was in his hands almost before he'd made the decision to go for it. He leveled it on Janine in a steady, two-handed grip. He could hold that shooting stance for hours if he had to, he knew.

"Let him go," John said, his voice very soft, "or I will kill you."

"Aw, John," Janine said, turning to smile at him. "No, you won't. Mary, shoot him."

"Don't," John said quickly. "I have quite a bit of pressure on the trigger. If she shoots me now, the likelihood of me reflexively squeezing the trigger is high. Maybe I wouldn't kill you, but I can't imagine a gunshot wound all the way out here, so far from medical help, would be survivable."

"Which is exactly why you need to put that gun down before Mary is forced to kill her Omega," Janine said, anger rising in her voice.

"Not happening," John said.

"Mary, get him under control before I decide to have him killed, too," Janine snapped, turning to look behind John. Although he did not turn his head to look at Mary, John could see her moving out of his peripheral vision, stalking slowly closer to him, her gun leveled on him just as unerringly as his was leveled on Janine.

"I can't shoot him," Mary said tightly. "What he said is true; even if I just shoot him in the leg or something, there's no guarantee he won't get a shot off."

"So, what, it's a Mexican standoff?" Janine asked. "This is ridiculous. I don't have time for this right now. Mary, just kill him."

"But you said I could keep him," Mary protested, her voice going thin and panicky.

"That was before he pulled a gun on me!" Janine shouted, her voice echoing back from the walls of the warehouse.

Mary hesitated, her eyes ticking from John to Janine and back.

"Can't you think of something else?" Mary asked.

"Mary, get over him and just _shoot_ him."

"But he's mine," Mary said, her voice small. "He's my Omega."

"Not anymore. I'm taking him back," Janine said coldly. "Kill him or I'll have Rostam chain you up next to Sherlock and we'll see how much you enjoy being slowly skinned by an expert."

John saw the decision almost at the moment that Mary made it. He was already spinning towards her when her gun went off. He fired in response, his aim as true as it had ever been.

Behind him, he heard a quick, startled sound as Janine toppled to the floor, a dark hole through the center of her forehead. In front of him, Mary slid bonelessly to the ground, a fatal gunshot wound through her chest.

John turned toward the torturer, gun still raised, but the man held his empty hands up, backing away from the table. "I was paid to do a job. I am not going to die for it."

John had no idea how long he would have before his Mate bond to Mary began to fall apart. He had no experience with the dissolution of a bond after the true death of one of the Mates. He shoved the gun back into the waistband of his trousers and rushed to Sherlock's side, crouching slightly to look up into Sherlock's battered face, his hands hovering as he tried to assess how badly Sherlock was injured before grabbing onto him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John glanced over at the torturer. "Are there keys to these?"

"On the table," the man said. "I am leaving, yes?"

"Go," John said dismissively, rising from his crouch to move to the folding picnic table set up a little ways from Sherlock. He tried to ignore the various instruments of pain spread across the table, but it was hard; so many of them had blood and bits of flesh adhering to them. John was breathing hard by the time he located the tiny silver key resting on the table and rushed back to Sherlock's side.

He unlocked the first manacle and Sherlock sagged heavily, trying to support his weight but unable to keep his feet under him for some reason. John was ready when he released the second manacle, catching Sherlock as the taller man collapsed. John found himself almost thankful for how much weight Sherlock had lost in the past two years. He might have been able to manage to bear up the Sherlock he had met in the St. Bart's lab four years before, but the Sherlock that held weakly on to John's jumper now was at least thirty pounds lighter.

"Can you walk? I don't know how long we have before my Mate bond starts to dissolve and I don't think it'd be good for either of us if it happens here," John said.

"I can... try," Sherlock said, his voice a rasp. "He burned... feet."

John frowned, easing Sherlock into a sitting position on the concrete floor. He moved down to Sherlock's feet, lifting one carefully by the ankle to take a look at the bottom.

There were rows of blisters along the bottoms of Sherlock's feet, twisting around old scars. John's breath hitched as he took in not only the new damage but the old that must have been inflicted during the months that Sherlock was being held and tortured.

"Okay," John breathed, lowering Sherlock's leg gently back to the ground. "Okay. I'm calling Mycroft."

"Good... idea," Sherlock said weakly, drooping forward over his own legs.

John jogged over to Mary's body, rifling through her pockets for his mobile. He tried to summon up some sympathy for her. He had spent nearly all his free time with her for eight months. They had built something together and he had loved her. True, she had lied to him from the very first moment he met her and manipulated his feelings to get him where she wanted him, but in the end she had chosen to shoot Janine rather than kill John. She had chosen her Mated over the woman who effectively owned her. That had to mean something, right?

John decided he didn't have the energy to care about philosophy at that moment. There were more important things for him to concentrate on.

He found his mobile in the pocket of Mary's jacket and pulled it free, rushing back to Sherlock's side as he scrolled through his contact list, looking for Mycroft's entry.

"Mycroft?" John said as soon as he heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line. "Sherlock's been tortured and my Mate bond to Mary could begin dissolving at any second. We need help."

"Where are you?" Mycroft asked, his voice going from lazy to instantly alert.

"I'm not completely sure."

"Turn on your GPS tracker in your mobile," Mycroft said.

"I don't know if it has one," John admitted. "And, honestly, I wouldn't know how."

"I can turn it on remotely," Mycroft said. "It will just take a few minutes longer than if you did it yourself."

"I didn't know you could do that," John said, surprised.

"It's a secondary GPS that I had installed in your phone," Mycroft admitted, his voice dry. "How badly is Sherlock injured?"

John glanced over at the other man. Sherlock was lifting his head now, meeting John's gaze through a single eye. The other had swelled shut and was beginning to bruise. As he'd predicted, it was going to be a truly impressive black eye.

John circled Sherlock slowly. His back was a mess, new wounds on top of old scars that hadn't completely finished healing. While some of the scars made John wonder how Sherlock had survived what he'd gone through, none of the new wounds looked bad enough to be immediately life threatening.

"It's bad, but nothing that he can't survive if he receives immediate medical attention," John said.

"We will be there as soon as we can," Mycroft promised and the connection went dead.

"Are you... all right?" Sherlock rasped, still trying to focus on John with his one good eye. John moved close to him, hesitating as he tried to figure out where he could touch Sherlock that wouldn't cause the other man pain. He finally settled for running his fingertips gently over Sherlock's knuckles, caressing them over and over with one hand.

"I'm fine. I shot Mary, though, so I won't be fine for long."

"You... shot...?"

"She had a gun on me. Janine had ordered her to kill me. I thought she was going to and I fired. It was luck that she was aiming for Janine when she made that shot rather than me or you'd still be up in chains."

"Surprising," Sherlock whispered. "Thought... she was... faking... affection."

"Well, you aren't always the best at reading human emotions," John admitted, and thought he saw the faintest twitch of Sherlock's lips under the swath of blood.

"Janine?"

"Also dead. Mary was a crack shot."

"Then... it's over."

"Unless there are any other Moriarty siblings," John said. He apologized quickly at Sherlock's weak groan of misery, sliding his hand into Sherlock's and squeezing lightly. "Bad joke, I know. Bad timing for it, too."

They sat in silence for a minute, John stroking the pad of his thumb over Sherlock's fingers and listening to the rasp of Sherlock's breath.

"Janine said that she got you here by threatening me," John said. "That you put the manacles on yourself because she threatened to have me killed."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed.

"Why would you do that? You had to've known they were going to torture you. Why would you willingly lock yourself in knowing what was going to happen?"

"They... had you," Sherlock whispered, lifting his head to meet John's eyes. "I couldn't... you are the most... important..."

John could feel tears prickling his eyes and he blinked hard, trying to force them away. He leaned out, resting his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock leaned his head down, his jaw against John's hair, and John didn't care that Sherlock was almost certainly smearing blood against him.

"I love you, too, you bloody idiot," John whispered, and the hitch in Sherlock's breath was worth the effort to finally say those words out loud.

The warehouse door slammed open seconds later and John relaxed as men in black tactical gear rushed in. Mycroft had arrived.

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

**Then**

John caught up to Sherlock in a few quick steps, still not completely used to his bum leg not aching each time he put weight on it. Behind them, the police lights cycled endlessly, splashing color across the bricks of the buildings on either side of them.

"So, dim sum," John said as he fell into step next to the taller man.

"Mmm!" Sherlock agreed. "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't," John retorted, amused.

"Almost can," Sherlock replied. "You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?" John said, struggling to keep up with the sudden conversational shift.

"In Afghanistan. There _was_ an actual wound?"

"Oh, yeah. In the shoulder," John confirmed.

"Shoulder! I thought so," Sherlock said, sounding pleased with himself.

"No, you didn't."

"The left one." Sherlock sounded determined to prove himself right.

"Lucky guess," John muttered.

"I never guess," Sherlock said.

John couldn't stop his smile. "Yes, you do." He glanced over at Sherlock and saw a smile on his face, as well. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty." Sherlock fairly purred the word.

"What's Moriarty?" 

"I've absolutely no idea," Sherlock admitted. He glanced over at John, a slow smile spreading across his face. John couldn't help his answering smile. As ridiculous as the evening had been, it was no more ridiculous, John thought, than the fact that a man who could easily have had his face splashed across multiple modeling campaigns had deemed simple John Watson good enough to be flatmates with. Better than that, he had given John back his reason for living and his excitement in life by including John in his mad adventures.

John decided that, as long as Sherlock would give him the chance, John would follow the mad genius anywhere. If he spent the rest of his life chasing after the other man and saving him from his own brilliant idiocy, John would live a happy life. It was merely a bonus that Sherlock happened to be incredibly hot.


	17. Epilogue

Sherlock spent two weeks in hospital recovering from the torture that Janine had inflicted on him. His time was lengthened when, on his third day, one of the deeper gouges in his back became infected.

John had not been there when the infection set in. He'd been in his own room, suffering through the breaking of his Mating bond with Mary Morstan. Normally, Omegas were not given hospital rooms; the process of a bond breaking was painful, but not particularly life-threatening in an otherwise healthy Omega. Mycroft pulled strings to get John just down the hall from Sherlock, knowing that both would be easier in their minds if they knew the other was nearby.

Once John was able to get to his feet again at the end of twelve very bad hours, he had stumbled down the hall to Sherlock's room and received the news that one of Sherlock's wounds was badly infected and that the doctors were trying various antibiotics in high doses to try to keep Sherlock alive. From that point on, John did not leave the other man's side.

When Sherlock finally left the hospital, he had lost even more weight. John and Sherlock's doctors had put their heads together to formulate a plan for putting weight back on the now-skeletally thin detective. For once, Sherlock did not fight it. He ate at least some of whatever John put in front of him once they were safely back in 221B Baker Street. John got the idea to reward him with kisses for cleaned plates, and Sherlock began eating even more.

For the first month after the deaths of Janine Moriarty and Mary Morstan, Sherlock did not leave 221B. He corresponded with Lestrade via text and email and took cases from email responses to John's blogs that he could solve without leaving the flat. He put weight on slowly. He touched John frequently and John responded in kind, finding that he relished the freedom to touch Sherlock whenever he wanted to.

They were learning whole new aspects of one another. Sherlock loved having the back of his neck stroked and would often sit for extended periods of time, allowing John to gently run his knuckles up and down the smooth skin beneath the curls at his nape. John found that he enjoyed dozing on the couch with his head leaning onto Sherlock's shoulder while the detective researched on his laptop, indulging in the warmth of Sherlock's body against his.

After two months, John told Sherlock that he had asked Mycroft for a dose of the experimental drug that dissolved a bond between a Mated Alpha and Omega before Mary had taken him from the flat. "I had already made up my mind to leave her when I was forced to shoot her," John explained, watching the knowledge of his decision fill Sherlock.

Sherlock had sat silently for several minutes, considering what John had said. Finally, he asked John into his bed. "Not for sex, not yet," he had clarified at John's look. "For sleep. I still have nightmares and I think... I'm sure I would sleep easier if you were next to me."

The first night in a shared bed, John had been forced to wake Sherlock from another nightmare and had ended up pinning the taller man's arms to the mattress when Sherlock tried to attack him. They had stayed awake the rest of the night, John's body spooned against Sherlock's scarred back, his fingers stroking soothingly up and down Sherlock's bare arm.

The second night, they had slept through without waking and John had woken up to Sherlock studying his face in the early morning light, Sherlock's expression soft and open as he let his eyes wander over John.

Having fallen in love with Sherlock years before, John wasn't entirely sure what he was falling in now, but he knew he liked it.

By the third month, Sherlock was as difficult as he had ever been. He had begun taking cases that took him out of the flat again, skipping sleep and meals in the pursuit of the truth. John took up nagging as a way to be sure that Sherlock, still recovering from two rounds of torture in as many months plus a precipitous drop in weight, did not relapse. Sherlock sniped back at the nagging and John found that, even when he was furious at the other man, he adored him more than ever now that Sherlock was no longer acting quite so fragile.

Their normal routine reasserted itself with the addition of more touching. John began taking days at the clinic again once he was sure Sherlock was doing well. The months of very little income while Sherlock had been recovering and taking only small cases had left them struggling. They needed the extra money.

Sherlock responded by taking a big case that promised a large monetary reward. They had their first big row at he conclusion of that case, after Sherlock had nearly been knifed by the twenty-year-old son of the interior designer who had hired them. Sherlock had named the son as the one who had been stealing from the homes of the interior designer's clients and the young man had taken offense to it. John had pointed out, once they were back home again, that naming the perpetrator of the crime when the person in question was standing right beside him was probably one of the most idiotic things Sherlock could have done. Sherlock had responded that it was the perfectly logical thing to do, considering that Lestrade had been en route to arrest the young man. It has escalated until John had stormed from the flat in a fit of temper. John had walked the pavement of London for nearly an hour, burning his anger off in exercise. Eventually, the combination of walking, time, and the cool spring night had cooled John enough that he felt he could go back to the flat. Sherlock had been playing the violin when John had returned home and had thrown the instrument down to embrace John as soon as he had walked into the flat, his hug slightly intrusive but not unwelcome after the row.

"I am an idiot," Sherlock had admitted.

"At times, yes," John had agreed, mollified enough to reach up to stroke his hand against the smooth skin on the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Please, don't leave me," Sherlock had said, pressing his face into the top of John's head.

"I just needed to walk off some anger," John said, surprised. "I wasn't planning on leaving permanently."

"Good. Don't."

It was surprising to John that Sherlock had worried about such a thing, but it hadn't been hard for John to reassure the other man that leaving was the last thing on his mind.

That night, Sherlock had initiated sex, their first since Sherlock's return from the dead five months before and only their second sexual encounter with one another. He'd asked to suck John off, something John had granted happily. As much as John enjoyed it, he almost wondered if Sherlock had enjoyed it more, judging from the enthusiasm Sherlock displayed in using tongue, lips, and hands to discover exactly how to give John the most mind-blowingly extreme orgasm he'd ever experienced from a blowjob.

Afterwards, cuddled close to Sherlock's chest and warmed by his afterglow, John had been unsurprised to hear Sherlock raise the idea of bonding again during John's next Heat in a month. John had agreed enthusiastically and they had started the countdown.

When the day finally arrived, John had been almost giddy. Sherlock celebrated by stocking up on several loaves of bread, insuring a steady supply of toast during the Heat. John would have laughed at him if he hadn't been so busy stripping out of his clothes when Sherlock stepped back into the flat after going to the store.

At the end of the four days of Heat, John ignored his full bladder when he woke up, choosing instead to cuddle closer to his Mate. Once Sherlock finally woke up, John kissed him before crawling from the bed to head to the loo.

"Will you be coming back to bed?" Sherlock asked, watching John with a warm look in his eyes.

John glanced at the rumpled, stained sheets. He glanced down at himself and then over at Sherlock, both of them fairly disgusting after the last four days of frantic, hormone-driven sex. "Yes," John said. "I'll come back to bed. But let's at least change the sheets, please."

**\- end -**

_"So here you are, reading this, expecting something. A story perhaps, or someone singing themselves to sleep. You’re ready and I’m ready too. Have you been waiting long? I’ve frankensteined it for you, bundled it all up, because it’s nice to put pictures inside people’s heads, like frogs and ronin and Cleveland and Deloreses. Here is a place for it to happen. A place where I can love you. The letter delivered, the year decembered, the river swum." - Richard Siken, "The Long and Short of It"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading this fic. If you haven't yet, please take a moment to leave Kudos (and, if you are reading this Note at the very end, I assume you enjoyed it enough to WANT to leave Kudos). Comments are my addiction; I love to chat. Don't hesitate to ask questions or just say how much you enjoyed reading.
> 
> Thank you to Nickygp (Tumblr user thetwogaydetectives) who beta'd this fic from chapter 8 onward. Any mistakes or typoes before chapter 8 are entirely my fault. Any afterwards are still my fault as her awesomeness can only extend so far in the editing process.
> 
> You can follow my Tumblr for updates and random writerly musings plus reblogs of Johnlock theories and metas that catch my attention: pixchuu221b.tumblr.com
> 
> See you in the next fanfic.


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